12D 


DRU 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  47ra 


THE 
DRUMS  OF  THE  47th 


By 

ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE,  D.D.,  LL.D 

Author  of 
SMILES  YOKED  WITH  SIGHS,  CHIMES  FROM  A  JESTER'S  BELLS 


OLD  TIME  AND  YOUNG  TOM,  ETC; 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1914 
CLARA  B.  BURDETTE 


QSS 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH    &    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.   Y. 


A  FOREWORD 

Historians  prepare  themselves  for  their  tasks  by  much  read 
ing  and  by  the  study  of  great  events  that  have  marked  the 
progress  of  the  world's  activities;  writers  of  Philosophy 
deduce  from  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  certain  systems  or  theories; 
the  Poets  of  the  world  drift  idly  on  until  the  Muses  bestow 
their  rhythmic  inspiration. 

The  author  of  this  volume  acquired  his  preparation  when  he 
himself  was  a  maker  of  history.  The  facts  told  here  are  not 
compiled  from  other  men's  records,  but  are  released  from  an 
unfading  gallery  of  mental  pictures  made  at  a  time  when  young 
life  was  most  impressionable  and  the  flash-light  of  events  most 
unerring. 

His  philosophy,  which  has  unconsciously  woven  itself  into 
every  thought  and  written  page,  was  born  of  a  sympathetic 
knowledge  of  human  needs,  activities  and  frailties  gathered 
through  a  lifetime  of  loving  his  fellow  men. 

The  prose-poetry  of  his  style  needed  the  help  of  no  mythical 
Muse.  It  was  his  inheritance,  as  it  has  been  his  life,  to  drink 
deeply  at  the  spiritual  fountain  that  constantly  freshened  his 
very  soul  with  rhythm  and  song.  And  he  of  all  men  could 
never  lose  the  swing  and  cadence  that  came  into  life  between 
the  years  of  eighteen  and  twenty-one  with  the  throb  and  the 
roll  of  the  drum  that,  for  the  upholding  of  the  great  principle 
of  life,  led  him  to  possible  death. 

This  slender  volume  is  offered  to  all  who  have  fought  in  the 
wars  of  the  world,  that  its  vivid  pictures  may  call  to  memory 
the  terrible  though  splendid  past.  To  all  who  have  fought,  or 
are  fighting,  the  personal  battles  of  life,  that  its  sweet  philos 
ophy  may  help  win  them  the  final  struggle.  To  all  who  sorrow, 
that  its  good  cheer  may  make  it  possible  for  them  to  sing  a  new 
song  and  to  know  that  the  final  beat  of  the  Drums  must  be  a 
joyous  note  of  "Peace  on  earth  and  good  will  to  men." 

— CLARA  B.  BURDETTE. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  LURE  OF  THE  DRUM 1 

II  THE  REAL  THING 13 

III  READY  TO  KILL  AND  TO  LAUGH       .        .        .        .25 

IV  STORMY  WEATHER  CHRISTIANS        .        .        .        .37 
V  THE  MURDER 48 

VI  THE  FLAG 60 

VII   COMRADES 72 

VIII  THE  TESTING  AT  THE  BROOK 84 

IX  THE  COWARD 97 

X  THE  SCHOOL  OF  THE  SOLDIER           ....  109 

XI   GOOD  FIGHTING  ON  POOR  FOOD      ....  121 

XII   GETTING  ACQUAINTED  WITH  GRANT       .        .        .133 

XIII  WAR  THE  DESTROYER 145 

XIV  THE  COLONEL 157 

XV  A  TRIPTYCH  OF  THE  SIXTIES 169 

XVI  THE  FAREWELL  VOLLEYS 184 

XVII  THE  LOST  FORT 197 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  4?TH 


THE  DRUMS  OF  THE 
47TH 


THE   LURE   OF   THE   DRUM 


I  WAS  eighteen  years  old  that  thirtieth  of  July. 
I  was  lying  in  the  shade  of  a  cherry-tree,  and  at  a 
window  near  by  my  mother  was  sewing.  She  sang 
as  she  sewed,  in  a  sweet  fashion  that  women  have, — 
singing,  rocking,  thinking,  dreaming;  the  swaying 
sewing-chair  weaving  all  these  occupations  to 
gether  in  a  reverie-pattern  that  is  half  real,  half 
vision.  She  was  singing  sweet  old  songs  that  I 
had  heard  her  sing  ever  since  I  was  a  baby, — songs 
of  love,  and  home,  and  peace ;  a  song  of  the  robin, 
and  the  carrier  dove,  and  one  little  French  song  of 
which  I  was  very  fond,  Jeannette  and  Jeannot. 
It  was  a  French  girl  singing  to  her  lover  who  had 

1 


THE   DRUMS   OF   THE    47TH 

been  conscripted,  and  was  bidding  her  good-by  as 
he  went  away  to  join  his  regiment.  The  last  stanza 
lingers  in  my  memory : 

"Oh,  if  I  were  king  of  France,  or,  still  better,  Pope 

of  Rome, 
I'd  have  no  fighting  men  abroad,  no  weeping  maids 

at  home ; 
All  the  world  should  be  at  peace,  and  if  kings  would 

show  their  might, 
I'd  have  them  that  make  the  quarrels  be  the  only 

ones  to  fight." 

Sixty  years  ago  I  first  heard  my  mother  sing  that 
simple  little  song,  and  I  have  never,  in  all  the  coun 
cils  of  the  Wise  and  the  Great,  heard  a  better  solu 
tion  of  the  problem  of  peace  and  war.  Put  a  cor 
poral  on  the  throne,  send  the  soldiers  to  Parliament 
and  Congress,  and  the  legislators  and  kings  to  war, 
and  battles  would  automatically  cease  throughout 
all  the  world.  It  seems  to  me  it  has  been  a  long 
time  since  a  king  was  hurt  in  a  fight.  Nobody 
wears  so  many  brilliant  uniforms  and  such  a  medley 
of  decorations  as  a  monarch.  And  nobody  keeps 
farther  away  from  the  firing  line. 


THE    LURE    OF    THE    DRUM 

When  the  First  Gun  Sounded 

It  was  such  a  quiet,  dreamy,  peaceful  July  after 
noon.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  gentle  wind  in  the 
top  of  the  cherry-tree,  softly  carrying  an  eolian 
accompaniment  to  my  mother's  singing.  Once  a 
robin  called.  A  bush  of  "old-fashioned  roses"  per 
fumed  the  breath  of  the  song.  A  cricket  chirped  in 
the  grass. 

Boom!  A  siege-gun  fired  away  off  down  in 
Charleston,  and  a  shell  burst  above  Fort  Sumter, 
wreathing  an  angry  halo  about  the  most  beautiful 
flag  the  sunshine  ever  kissed.  From  ocean  to  ocean 
the  land  quivered  as  with  the  shock  of  an  earth 
quake.  Far  away,  from  the  ramparts  of  Sumter,  a 
bugle  shrilled  across  the  states  as  though  it  were 
the  voice  of  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  calling  the 
sheeted  dead  to  rise.  And  close  at  hand  the  flam, 
flam,  flam  of  a  drum  broke  into  wild  thrill  of  the 
long  roll, — the  fierce  »narl  of  the  dogs  of  war, 
awakened  by  that  signal  shot  from  Beauregard's 
batteries. 

I  leaped  to  my  feet,  seized  my  cap  and  ran  to 
3 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  window  to  wind  my  arms  around  my  mother's 
neck. 

"Mother,"  I  said,  "I'm  going !" 

Her  beautiful  face  turned  white.  She  held  me 
close  to  her  heart  a  long,  silent,  praying  time. 
Then  she  held  me  off  and  kissed  me — a  kiss  so  ten 
der  that  it  rests  upon  my  lips  to-day — and  said : 

"God  bless  my  boy !" 

And  with  my  mother's  blessing  I  hurried  down  to 
the  recruiting  station,  and  soon  I  marched  away 
with  a  column  of  men  and  boys,  still  keeping  step 
to  the  drum. 

But  in  the  long  years  when  the  drum  and  bugle 
made  my  only  music,  often  I  could  hear  the  sob,  sob 
that  broke  from  her  heart  when  she  bade  me  good- 
by,  mingling  with  the  harsh  flam,  flam  of  the  drum 
that  led  me  from  her  side.  And  at  other  times,  when 
the  bugles  sang  high  and  clear,  sounding  the  charge 
above  the  roar  and  crash  of  musketry  and  batteries, 
even  then,  sometimes,  I  could  hear  "Jeannette"  still 
softly  singing,  "All  the  world  should  be  at  peace." 
When  the  storm  of  battle-passions  lulled  a  little  at 

4 


THE    LURE    OF    THE    DRUM 

times,  there  would  come  stealing  into  the  drifting 
clouds  of  acrid  powder-smoke  sweet  strains  of  the 
old  songs,  the  tender,  old-fashioned  melodies  about 
home,  and  love,  and  peace,  and  the  robin,  and  the 
carrier-dove. 

I  could  see  the  window  where  she  sat  and  sewed 
and  sang  on  my  birthday.  I  knew  the  song,  and  I 
could  see  how  gently  she  rocked,  and  could  hear  how 
soft  and  low  the  voice  fell  at  times.  I  knew  that 
once  in  a  while  the  sewing  would  fall  from  her 
hands,  and  they  would  lie  clasped  in  her  lap,  while 
the  song  ceased  as  it  turned  into  a  prayer.  And  I 
knew  for  whom  she  was  praying. 

All  the  way  from  Peoria  to  Corinth,  from  Corinth 
to  Vicksburg,  up  the  Red  River  country,  down  to 
Mobile  and  Fort  Blakely,  and  back  to  Tupelo  and 
Selma,  the  voice  and  the  song  and  the  prayer  fol 
lowed  me,  and  at  last  led  me  back  home. 

I  learned  then,  though  I  did  not  know  it  nearly 
so  well  as  I  do  now,  that  there  is  no  place  on  earth 
where  a  boy  can  get  so  far  away  from  his  mother 
that  her  song  and  her  prayer  and  her  love  will  not 

5 


[THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

follow  Him.  There  is  only  one  love  that  will  follow 
him  farther ;  that  has  sweeter  patience  to  seek  him ; 
that  has  surer  wisdom  to  find  him ;  that  is  mightier 
to  save  him  and  bring  him  back  to  home,  and  love 
and  peace.  What  a  Love  that  is  which  will  endure 
longer  and  suffer  more  and  do  more  than  hers! 
What  a  love! 

I  once  heard  a  man  say, — he  had  never  been  a 
soldier, — "If  a  woman  is  ever  given  the  ballot,  like 
a  man,  she  should  be  compelled  to  shoulder  a  musket 
and  go  to  war,  like  the  men." 

Such  a  foolish,  cowardly,  brutal  thing  to  say ! 
Sometimes  the  government  has  to  conscript  men  to 
make  them  fight  for  their  country.  When  has 
woman  ever  shrunk  from  going  to  war?  "She 
risked  her  life  when  the  soldier  was  born."  She 
wound  her  arms  around  him  through  all  the  years 
of  his  helplessness.  Night  after  night,  when  fell 
disease  fought  for  the  little  soldier's  tender  life, 
she  robbed  her  aching  eyes  of  sleep,  a  faithful  senti 
nel  over  his  cradle.  She  nourished  him  on  her 
own  life,  a  fountain  drawn  from  her  mother-breasts. 

6 


THE    LURE    OF    THE    DRUM 

She  stood  guard  over  him,  keeping  all  the  house 
quiet  when  he  would  sleep  in  the  noisy  daytime.  She 
stood  on  the  firing  line,  battling  with  the  foes  of 
uncleanness,  contagion,  sudden  heat  and  biting 
cold,  protecting  her  little  soldier  in  the  clean  sweet 
fortress  of  his  home.  She  taught  him  his  first 
cooing  words  that  some  day  he  might  have  a  mighty 
voice  and  brave  words  of  defiance  to  shout  against 
his  country's  foes.  She  taught  him  his  first  step 
— such  a  wavering,  uncertain  little  step — that  some 
day  he  could  keep  step  to  the  drum-beat  and  march 
with  the  men — a  free  swinging  stride — as  they  fol 
lowed  the  flag.  She  trained  him  up  to  be  a  manly 
man,  to  hate  a  lie  and  despise  a  mean  action,  to  be 
noble  and  chivalrous.  She  builded  a  strong  man 
out  of  her  woman's  soul. 

The  Woman's  Harvest 

And  then  one  day,  when  the  bugles  shrilled  and 
the  drum  beat,  she  kissed  him  and  sent  him  forth 
at  the  wheels  of  the  guns — her  beautiful  boy — to  be 
food  for  the  fire-breathing  maw  of  the  black-lipped 

7 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

cannon !  Her  boy  !  Heart  of  her  heart !  Life  of 
her  life !  Love  of  her  soul ! 

The  exultant  news  flashes  over  the  wires.  "Glori 
ous  victory,"  shout  the  papers  in  crimson  head 
lines,  "ten  thousand  killed !" 

And  in  the  long  list  there  is  only  one  name  she 
can  read.  It  stands  out  black  as  a  pall  upon  the 
white  paper — characters  of  night  against  the  morn 
ing  sunshine — the  name  she  gave  her  first-born. 

And  that  is  the  end  of  it  all.  All  the  years  of 
tender  nursing ;  of  tireless  care ;  of  patient  training ; 
of  loving  teaching ;  of  sweet  companionship ;  and 
of  all  the  little  walks  and  talks;  the  tender  confi 
dences  of  mother  and  son ;  the  budding  days ;  the 
blossoming  years — this  is  the  harvest.  This  is  war. 

When  was  there  a  generation  since  boys  were 
born  that  women  did  not  go  to  war?  Never  a  bay 
onet  lunged  into  the  breast  of  the  soldier  that 
had  not  already  cooled  its  hot  wrath  in  the  heart  of 
a  mother.  While  the  soldier  has  fought  through 
one  battle,  the  mother  has  wandered  over  a  score 
of  slaughter  fields,  looking  for  his  mangled  body. 

8 


THE    LURE    OF    THE    DRUM 

He  sings  and  plays,  the  rough  games  of  out-of-door 
men,  in  camp  for  a  month,  and  then  goes  out  to 
fight  one  skirmish.  But  every  day  and  night  of  the 
thirty  the  mother  has  waked  through  a  hundred 
alarms  that  never  were.  She  has  watched  on  the 
lonely  picket  post.  She  has  paced  the  sentry  beat 
before  his  tent.  She  has  prayed  beside  him  while  he 
slept.  The  throbs  of  her  heart  have  been  the  beads 
of  her  rosary. 

What  does  a  soldier  know  about  war? 

I  went  into  the  army  a  light-hearted  boy,  with  a 
face  as  smooth  as  a  girl's  and  hair  as  brown  as  my 
beautiful  mother's.  I  fought  through  more  than  a 
score  of  battles  and  romped  through  more  than  a 
hundred  frolics.  I  had  the  rollicking  time  of  my 
life  and  came  home  stronger  than  an  athlete,  with 
robust  health  builded  to  last  the  rest  of  my  life. 
And  my  mother,  her  brown  hair  silvered  with  the 
days  of  my  soldiering,  held  me  in  her  arms  and 
counted  the  years  of  her  longing  and  watching  with 
kisses.  When  she  lifted  her  dear  face  I  saw  the 
story  of  my  marches  and  battles  written  there  in 

9 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

lines  of  anguish.  If  a  mother  should  write  her 
story  of  the  war,  she  would  pluck  a  white  hair  from 
her  temple,  and  dip  the  living  stylus  into  the  chalice 
of  her  tears,  to  write  the  diary  of  the  days  upon  her 
heart. 

What  does  a  soldier  know  about  war? 

"Five  Feet  Three" 

When  I  went  into  the  recruiting  office,  two 
lieutenants  of  the  Forty-seventh  Illinois  Regiment, 
Samuel  A.  L.  Law  of  C  Company  and  Frank  Biser 
of  B,  looked  at  me  without  the  slightest  emotion  of 
interest.  When  I  told  them  what  I  wanted,  they 
smiled,  and  Lieutenant  Biser  shook  his  head.  But, 
Lieutenant  Law  spoke  encouragingly,  and  pointed 
to  the  standard  of  military  height,  a  pine  stick 
standing  out  from  the  wall  in  rigid  uncompromis 
ing  insistence,  five  feet  three  inches  from  the  floor. 
As  I  walked  toward  it  I  could  see  it  slide  up,  until 
it  seemed  to  lift  itself  seven  feet  above  my  ambi 
tious  head.  If  I  could  have  kept  up  the  stretching 
strain  I  put  on  every  longitudinal  muscle  in  my 
10 


THE   LURE    OF   THE   DRUM 

body  in  that  minute  of  fate,  I  would  have  been  as 
tall  as  Abraham  Lincoln  by  the  close  of  the  war. 
As  it  was,  when  I  stepped  under  that  Rhada- 
manthine  rod,  I  felt  my  scalp-lock,  which  was  very 
likely  standing  on  end  with  apprehension,  brush 
lightly  against  it.  The  officers  laughed,  and  one  of 
them  dictated  to  the  sergeant-clerk : 

"Five  feet  three." 

My  heart  beat  calmly  once  more,  and  I  shrank 
back  to  my  normal  five  feet  two  and  seven-eighths 
plus.  That  was  nearly  fifty  years  ago,  and  taking 
all  the  thought  I  could  to  add  to  my  stature,  I  have 
only  passed  that  tantalizing  standard  an  inch  and 
a  half.  I  received  certain  instructions  concerning 
my  reporting  at  the  office  daily,  and  as  I  passed  out 
I  heard  the  sergeant  say,  "That  child  will  serve 
most  of  his  time  in  the  hospital."  And  in  three 
years'  service  I  never  saw  the  inside  of  a  hospital 
save  on  such  occasions  as  I  was  detailed  to  nurse  the 
grown  men;  I  never  lost  one  day  off  duty  on  ac 
count  of  sickness.  There  were  times  when  I  was  so 
dead  tired,  and  worn  out,  and  faint  with  hunger, 
11 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

that  my  legs  wabbled  as  I  walked,  and  my  eyes 
were  so  dry  and  hot  with  lack  of  sleep,  that  I  would 
have  given  a  month's  pay  for  floor  space  in  Ander- 
sonville  prison.  But  whenever  I  turned  my  eyes 
longingly  toward  the  roadside,  passing  a  good  place 
to  "drop  out,"  I  could  hear  that  big  sergeant's  pity 
ing  sneer,  and  I  braced  up  and  offered  to  carry 
my  file-leader's  knapsack  for  a  mile  or  two. 

Sometimes,  my  boy,  the  best  encouragement  in 
the  world  is  a  little  timely  disparagement.  As  a 
rule,  I  am  very  apt  to  pat  aspiring  youth  on  the 
back,  and  "root  and  boost"  with  both  lungs.  But 
once  in  a  while  a  good  savage  kick  on  the  shins, 
given  with  all  the  fierceness  of  true  friendship,  puts 
the  spring  in  a  man's  heels  and  the  ginger  in  his 
punch  to  beat  all  the  petting  in  the  nursery. 


n 

THE    REAL    THING 

I  JOINED  my  regiment  at  Corinth,  Mississippi. 
I  never  dreamed,  when  first  I  looked  upon  it  in  the 
field,  how  proud  I  was  going  to  be  of  it.  It  was 
only  another  of  the  disillusions  that  illumined  the 
understanding  of  the  recruit,  and  showed  him  the 
difference  between  tinsel  and  gold.  It  taught  me  the 
distinction  between  dress  parade  and  a  skirmish 
line.  For  the  regiment  had  fought  at  luka,  and 
then  marched  day  and  night  to  reach  Corinth  in 
time  to  meet  Generals  Price  and  Van  Dorn  for  a 
three-days'  try-out.  It  was  forced  marching,  and 
the  barber,  the  manicure,  hairdresser,  and  chiropo 
dist  had  been  left  behind  with  the  pastry  cook — 
back  in  Illinois.  My  regiment!  In  my  dreams  it 
had  always  looked  like  a  replica  of  the  Old  Guard 
at  Marengo.  Now  it  looked  more  like  the  retreat 
from  Moscow.  Save  that  it  never  retreated. 

Uniforms  grimed  with  the  dust  of  the  summer 
13 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

roads  and  the  rains  and  mud  of  the  spring  cam 
paigns.  Some  of  the  soldiers  wore  military  caps, 
but  none  so  new  and  bright  and  blue  and  bebraided 
as  my  own.  Hats  were  largely  the  wear.  The 
army  hat  of  "the  sixties."  A  thing  fearful  and 
wonderful  when  it  was  new,  with  a  cord  that  was 
strong  enough  to  bind  an  enemy  hand  and  foot, 
and  terminating  in  tassels  big  enough  and  hard 
enough  to  brain  him.  One  side  looped  up  with  a 
brass  eagle,  not  quite  life-size.  The  inflexible  mate 
rial  of  the  hat  made  it  break  where  the  side  was 
turned  up.  The  crown  was  high  and  the  brim  was 
flat,  the  general  effect  being  a  cone  with  a  cornice. 
Sometimes  the  soldier  creased  a  pleat  in  the  top, 
that  it  might  resemble  the  Burnside  hat,  by  which 
name,  indeed,  I  think  it  was  called.  This  broke 
it  in  two,  and  let  in  the  rain. 

Well,  my  comrades  had  marched  in  this  grotesque 
head-gear  in  the  dust  and  in  the  rain.  They  had 
fought  in  it.  They  had  slept  in  it.  They  had  used 
it  for  a  pillow  in  the  resting  halts  on  the  march.  On 
occasions  they  had  carried  water  in  it.  One  warrior 

14 


THE    REAL    THING 

told  me  he  had  boiled  eggs  in  his.  But  you  can't 
tell.  You  may  guess  what  it  looked  like  when  I 
first  saw  it.  I  can't.  I  saw  it,  and  I  couldn't  re 
call  anything  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life  that  it 
faintly  resembled. 

The  most  comfortable  way  of  wearing  the  trou 
sers  on  march  was  by  tucking  them  into  the  legs 
of  the  army  sock.  Oh,  yes ;  plenty  of  room.  A  man 
could  put  both  legs  into  one  army  sock  of  the  six 
ties.  I  never  tried  slipping  one  over  an  expanded 
umbrella.  But  that  was  only  because  there  was  no 
umbrella.  Wearing  the  sock  over  the  legs  of  the 
trousers  was  the  best,  and  save  in  the  new  days  of 
the  sock,  the  only  way  to  hold  it  up.  The  sock  was 
made  by  machinery.  In  one  straight  tube,  I  think, 
and  then  pressed  into  sockly  shape.  This  lasted 
until  they  were  washed  the  first  time.  Then  the 
article  reverted  to  type,  and  became  the  knitted  tube 
from  which  it  had  evoluted. 

Recollections  of  the  Old  Army  Shoe 

The  shoes  were  not  dancing  pumps.     But  of  all 
15 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  things  that  ever  went  on  a  man's  pedals,  the  old 
army  shoe  was  the  easiest,  the  most  comfortable  and 
comforting  thing  that  ever  caressed  a  tired  foot. 
I  think  among  half  a  hundred  recruits  with  whom  I 
went  to  the  regiment  there  were  at  least  twenty- 
five  pairs  of  leg  boots ;  well-fitting  boots ;  made  by 
good  shoemakers  at  home,  and  costing  good  money. 
After  the  first  long  march  possibly  half  a  dozen 
pairs  survived  intact. 

And  they  lasted  only  until  we  could  draw  the 
government  common-sense  shoe.  Affection  could 
not  make  that  shoe  beautiful.  But  prejudice  could 
not  make  it  uncomfortable.  If  you  put  it  on  side- 
wise,  it  would  not  "run  over."  Its  process  of 
wearing  out  was  peculiar.  A  few  days  before  disso 
lution  the  shoe  displayed  symptoms  of  easy  uneasi 
ness.  It  flattened  out  a  little  more  across  the  toes, 
which  was  impossible.  Always  easy,  from  the  first 
day  it  was  worn,  it  grew  easier  day  by  day  until  it 
suddenly  became  luxurious  to  effeminacy.  Then,  on 
a  long  muddy  hill-climb  of  Mississippi  clay,  the 
sole  pulled  off  back  to  the  heel,  the  upper  spread 

16 


THE    REAL    THING 

itself  like  a  tanned  bat,  and  the  shoe  was  gone. 
That  was  all.  The  soldier  swore  his  astonishment 
and  disgust,  girdled  his  shoe  with  strings,  and  wore 
it  sandal  fashion  until  he  could  draw  a  new  pair 
from  the  quartermaster,  or  procure  a  pair  from  one 
of  the  many  sources  of  supply  which  were  an  open 
mystery  to  the  quartermaster's  department  and 
matters  of  profound  surprise  to  the  innocent  sol 
dier,  grieved  at  being  wrongfully  accused  of  "con 
veyance." 

My  dusty,  war-worn,  weather-beaten,  battle- 
stained  regiment !  About  four  hundred  men.  Was 
this  war?  Were  these  "soldiers"? 

Then  I  watched  the  companies  march  out  to  dress 
parade.  It  wasn't  drill-room  marching,  and  there 
was  no  music  to  time  their  steps.  But  it  was  the 
perfection  of  walking.  The  men  swung  along  with 
a  free  stride  learned  by  natural  methods  in  muddy 
roads,  on  dusty  turnpikes,  on  steep  and  winding 
trails  that  climbed  from  the  plain  to  the  hill-top. 
They  kept  step  without  knowing  it.  They  marched 
the  best  way  because  it  was  the  easiest  way.  Then 

17 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  line  of  the  parade.  From  company  to  company 
officers  and  sergeants  barked  a  few  terse  orders ;  a 
little  shuffling  of  feet,  and  the  line  stood  petrified 
at  attention. 

Just  to  be  a  Recruit! 

An  engineer  couldn't  have  altered  it  to  its  better 
ment.  Then  the  adjutant  barked  "Front!"  and 
the  parade  was  formed.  Square  shoulders,  full 
chests,  breathing  deep,  and  slow,  and  regular  as  a 
race-horse ;  easy  poise  of  body,  hands  resting  on  the 
ordered  muskets  lightly  as  they  would  hold  a  watch 
or  a  pencil,  yet  so  firmly  that  when  the  command, 
"  'Der — hmm !"  came,  every  piece  swung  to  a 
"shoulder"  like  the  movement  of  a  machine. 
Through  the  old-fashioned  manual  of  arms,  unin 
telligible  to  the  soldier  of  1914,  even  as  was  the 
"Scott  manual"  to  the  men  drilled  in  "Hardee," 
there  was  the  same  precision  of  movement ;  the  click 
of  the  hands  in  one  time  and  two  motions,  varied  by 
the  order,  as  the  piece  moved  from  the  old  to  the 
new  position,  or  fell  with  a  simultaneous  thump  on 

18 


THE    REAL    THING 

the  turf  to  the  "order."  If  a  man  came  through 
out  of  time,  the  discord  was  heard  the  entire  length 
of  the  line,  and  the  eyes  of  the  colonel  went  to  the 
face  of  the  laggard  like  bullets,  while  the  nearest 
sergeant  growled  sweetly  through  his  mustache  at 
the  culprit.  Mustaches  were  worn  in  the  army  of 
the  sixties ;  every  face  had  one.  Not  an  eye  in  the 
line  looked  toward  another  man  for  a  lead.  Every 
eye  straight  to  the  front,  and  every  man  save  the 
nervous  recruits  knowing  just  as  well  as  the  colonel 
the  order  of  the  manual  on  parade. 

The  "troop,  beat  off";  the  band  marched  down 
the  line  to  slow  music,  and  countermarched  back  at 
quick  time — Rocky  Road  to  Dublin,  The  Girl 
I  Left  Behind  Me,  or  the  everywhere  popular 
Garry  Owen,  or  some  lively  air  to  which  the  regi 
ment  had  words  of  its  own,  The  Death  of  My  Poor 
Children  being  a  favorite  of  ours.  The  first  ser 
geants  took  command  of  their  respective  companies 
and  marched  them  back  to  quarters,  and  my  heart 
thrilled  to  watch  them,  while  I  wondered,  as  I  vainly 
tried  to  imitate  them,  if  I  would  ever  learn  to  walk 
19 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TII 

like  that!  Now,  the  uniforms  seemed  to  fit  like 
dress  suits;  the  hats  were  jaunty  as  the  caps;  the 
accouterments  were  ornaments;  every  joint  in  the 
soldier's  body  was  "ball-bearing," — play  of  the 
hips,  swinging  arm,  the  heel-and-toe  walk,  twenty- 
miles-a-day  gait, — all  the  dancing  schools  in  Amer 
ica  couldn't  put  the  ease  and  grace  into  that  sol 
dier's  poise  and  movement  that  months  of  marching 
had  done.  How  proud  I  was  just  to  be  a  recruit 
in  such  a  regiment! 

A  greyhound  looks  prettier  than  a  bulldog. 
That's  because  it's  built  for  running.  But  a  bull 
dog  is  built  for  fighting.  That's  why  you  always 
turn  to  look  at  a  bulldog  when  you  pass  him  in  the 
street.  As  you  turn  to  look  you  smile  at  a  stranger 
who  has  turned  at  the  same  time.  The  stranger 
nods  his  head.  You  are  both  thinking  the  same 
thing.  That's  the  way  you  feel  when,  after  wit 
nessing  a  prize  drill  of  the  East  Haddam  Invin- 
cibles,  uniform  dark  and  sky-blue,  picked  out  with 
white ;  gold  stripes  down  the  trousers ;  frogs  across 
the  breast  of  the  coat ;  red,  white  and  blue  plumes 
20 


THE    REAL    THING 

in  the  caps;  white  gloves;  buttons  by  the  gross; 
patent  leather  knapsacks  quite  as  large  as  a  bon 
bon  box,  you  suddenly  meet  a  regiment  coming  back 
from  the  war.  It's  like  coming  out  of  a  heated 
stuffy  ballroom,  sickly  with  perfume,  to  feel  the 
keen  north  wind  of  November  blow  into  your  face 
with  the  breath  of  a  new  life— strong,  exultant, 
thrilling. 

The  Drums  of  the  Forty-Seventh 

We  had  a  brass  band  when  we  went  to  war.  But 
when  the  regiment  got  to  the  front  it  traded  the 
brass  band  for  a  fife  and  drum  corps.  Because  the 
regiment  is  a  fighting  machine.  Doesn't  the  band 
go  into  battle?  Sure.  Not  to  nerve  our  fighting 
courage  with  spirit-stirring  strains  of  stormy  music. 
The  musicians  tied  simple  bandages  of  white  or  red 
around  the  left  arm,  and  reported  to  the  surgeon 
for  duty.  They  sought  out  the  wounded  and  car 
ried  them  back  to  the  field  hospital,  sheltered  behind 
some  merciful  hill,  under  the  tender  shadow  of  a 
clump  of  trees.  They  found  the  dead,  and  carried 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  poor  sacrifices  to  the  rear  to  lay  them  in  silent 
ranks  for  their  last  bivouac. 

Some  of  their  human  burdens  wore  the  uniform 
we  loved.  And  some  of  them  were  clad  in  the  gray 
against  which  we  fought.  But  the  blood-stains,  like 
cleansing  fountains,  washed  out  all  hate  and  malice. 
War  rages  over  the  embattled  field,  a  storm  of  pas 
sion.  Under  the  trees  in  the  rear  of  the  fighting 
lines,  when  bullet  and  bayonet  and  shell  have 
wrought  their  hurt,  soft  Pity  moves,  a  ministering 
angel  of  God's  sweet  compassion.  Her  healing 
hand  touches  with  equal  tenderness  the  wounds  of 
friend  and  foe.  And  we  were  friends.  We  were 
brethren  a  little  while  estranged.  And  Love  is 
strong  as  death  and  stronger  than  hate.  And  truth 
outlasts  all  misunderstanding. 

We  had  a  "fighting  band."  Our  musicians  un- 
slung  their  drums  when  the  last  mile  was  growing 
longer  than  a  league,  and  carried  us  into  camp  with 
Jaybird,  Jaybird,  shouting  fresh.  In  the  morn 
ing  it  played  us  out  of  camp  with  Garry  Owen. 
And  when  the  skirmishers  deployed,  the  musicians 


THE    REAL    THING 

piled  their  drums  back  near  the  baggage  and 
lightly  trotted  in  open  formation  close  up  to  the 
firing  line,  with  extra  canteens  and  ready  stretch 
ers  and  emergency  bandages,  and  much  cheery 
chaff.  These  preparations  looked  chillingly  in  ear 
nest.  For  it  was  always  very  dangerous  to  go  into 
battle,  especially,  as  one  irreverent  private  remarked 
as  he  looked  around  on  the  unsheltered  plain,  "Hard 
lines  for  us,  boys;  there  aren't  half  enough  trees 
for  the  officers!"  One  of  our  drummers — the 
youngest — was  a  tonic  for  a  faint  heart.  Johnny 
Grove ;  he  could  drum  to  beat  a  hail-storm  on  a  tin 
roof,  and  he  had  a  heart  full  of  merriment  and  a 
tongue  as  ready  as  a  firecracker.  Death  came  very 
near  to  him  many  times,  but  he  always  laughed 
when  he  heard  the  boy,  and  passed  on,  and  Johnny 
still  lived  with  a  heart  as  mellow  as  then  it  was 
light,  until  a  few  years  ago. 

The  drums  of  the  Forty-seventh — they  time  a 
quicker  throb  to  my  old  heart  now,  when  I  think  I 
hear  them  again,  on  a  rough  road  and  a  steep  grade. 
The  drummers  are  old  men;  old  as  myself.  And 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

again  they  are  playing  the  regiment  into  camp. 
The  fifes  blow  softly  as  flutes.  The  roll  of  the 
muffled  drums,  tender  as  the  patter  of  rain  on  au 
tumn  leaves,  times  the  slow  steps  of  old  soldiers 
with  the  Dead  March  to  which  we  listened  so  oft 
when  life  was  in  the  spring-time. 

"There's  nae  sorrow  there,  John; 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 
I»  the  Land  o'  the  Leal." 


Ill 

BEADY  TO  KILL  AND  TO  LAUGH 

A  SOLDIER  expects  to  see  somebody  killed.  A 
battle-field  is  a  very  dangerous  place.  Even  a  skir 
mish-line  in  a  little  reconnaissance  is  an  unsafe  lo 
cality  for  a  picnic.  There  is  always  more  or  less — 
and  usually  more — peril  of  exposure  during  the 
storms  of  war.  That  brilliant  Georgian,  Henry  W. 
Grady,  of  Atlanta,  made  a  very  striking  criticism 
of  General  Sherman  when  he  said  that  "he  was  a 
great  general,  but  he  was  mighty  careless  with  fire." 
When  the  recruit  is  handed  his  Springfield  rifle, 
and  the  corporal  shows  him  how  to  load  it,  and 
teaches  him  the  best  method  of  taking  careful  and 
accurate  aim,  and  how  to  secure  the  most  rapid  fir 
ing  with  most  effective  results,  the  soldier  is  aware 
that  he  is  not  going  to  fire  blank  cartridges.  In 
fact,  he  is  given  no  blanks.  I  never  saw  one  all  the 
time  I  was  a  soldier  except  when  they  were  dealt 

25 


THE    DRUMS    OF   THE    47TH 

out  to  the  firing  squad  at  a  funeral,  when  the  man 
over  whom  we  were  to  fire  was  already  dead.  The 
weight  of  the  forty  rounds  in  the  cartridge-box 
assured  the  soldier  that  he  was  carrying  forty  bul 
lets,  every  one  of  them  capable  of  killing  any  living 
thing  it  hit — Texas  steer,  grizzly  bear  or  man. 

And  the  recruit  understood  very  plainly  that 
every  bullet  was  meant  to  have  its  billet  in  a  human 
body.  It  was  made  to  kill  some  human  being,  and 
he  was  appointed  by  the  government  as  its  active 
agent  to  direct  the  bullet  to  a  vital  spot  in  the  right 
man.  He  was  especially  warned  against  the  un- 
soldierly  sin  of  firing  too  high.  That  is  the  com 
mon  fault,  even  of  the  old  soldier.  Toward  the 
end  of  a  long  day  of  fighting,  when  the  whole  body 
is  wearied,  and  the  left  arm  is  especially  tired  with 
the  weight,  and  the  right  shoulder  is  sore  and  sensi 
tive  with  the  kicking  of  the  musket,  the  weapon 
pulls  the  arm  down,  and  the  bullet,  spiteful  but 
harmless,  kicks  up  the  dust  only  a  little  way  in 
front  of  the  soldier.  But  as  a  rule  he  shoots  too 
high.  The  repeated  expostulation  of  the  sergeants 
26 


READY  TO  KILL  AND  TO  LAUGH 

is,  "Fire  low,  boys;  fire  low!  Rake  'em!  Shin 
'em !"  Otherwise  the  recruit  will  not  kill  anybody, 
and  that  is  what  he  is  shooting  for.  It  is  what  he 
is  paid  for.  That  is  his  "business." 

Trained  for  the  Business  of  Killing 

It  sounds  very  cold-blooded,  but  it  is  all  cold  fact. 
Killing  is  the  object  of  war.  "You  can't  make 
omelettes,"  said  Napoleon,  "without  breaking 
eggs."  When  you  knew  him  at  home,  the  recruit 
was  one  of  the  happiest,  best-natured  boys  in  town : 
kind-hearted,  sympathetic,  gentle  as  a  girl.  But 
now  that  he  has  enlisted,  and  has  a  gun,  and  is  daily 
taught  and  trained  how  to  load  and  fire  with  deadly 
aim,  it  is  his  duty  to  kill  as  many  men  as  he  can, 
before  the  one  who  has  been  detailed  for  that  pur 
pose  by  an  officer  on  the  other  side  kills  him.  The 
glittering  bayonet  which  the  soldier  is  taught  how 
to  "fix"  on  the  end  of  his  musket  is  not  an  orna 
ment.  It  is  made  sharp  at  one  end,  a  wicked  sort 
of  triangular  bodkin,  so  that  a  vigorous  lunge  will 
drive  it  into  the  breast  of  a  man  up  to  the  muzzle 
27 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

of  the  musket.  There  is  nothing  strictly  orna 
mental  about  a  rifle.  In  case  the  bayonet  should 
break,  and  all  the  cartridges  are  burned,  the  soldier 
is  taught  how  to  make  a  most  effective  deadly 
weapon  out  of  the  butt  of  his  musket.  Everything 
about  a  military  equipment  is  dangerous  to  human 
life.  Even  the  rations  are  often  condemned,  espe 
cially  embalmed  beef. 

You  might  recognize  a  recruit  in  an  old  regi 
ment  by  the  careless  manner  in  which  he  handles 
his  piece.  He  leans  it  up  against  a  tree  without  see 
ing  to  it  that  it  is  firmly  balanced  and  braced  in  its 
place.  When  he  stacked  arms,  it  was  an  old  soldier 
who  tested  the  stability  of  the  "stack"  with  a  little 
shake.  The  recruit  carried  his  gun  any  which  way 
on  the  march,  until  he  was  taught  better  by  gentle 
caution,  stern  reprimand  and  jarring  kick.  The 
old  soldier  knew  that  a  musket  was  dangerous 
"without  lock,  stock  or  barrel." 

One  night  in  1863  we  bivouacked  in  an  old  Con 
federate  camp  ground  which  had  been  hastily  evac 
uated  on  our  uninvited  approach.     We  found  the 
28 


READY    TO    KILL    AND    TO    LAUGH 

rude  bunks  very  comfortable,  and  not  more  over 
crowded  with  inhabitants  than  the  abandoned  bunks 
of  an  old  camp  are  liable  to  be,  without  regard  to 
previous  political  affiliations. 

Next  morning  we  broke  camp  to  go  on  in  pursuit 
of  our  retiring  hosts.  The  "assembly"  had  sounded, 
and  while  we  were  lounging  about  waiting  to  hear 
"Fall  in,"  a  soldier  in  my  own  regiment  found  an 
old  revolver  under  one  of  the  bunks.  It  was  one  of 
those  antique,  self-cocking  curiosities  known  as  an 
Allen's  "pepper-box,"  the  most  erratic  and  unre 
liable  weapon  of  death  ever  designed  to  miss  any 
thing  at  which  it  was  pointed.  It  was  commonly 
supposed  that  a  man  couldn't  hit  a  flock  of  barns 
with  one,  if  he  were  standing  inside  the  middle  barn. 
But  this  time  the  soldier,  knowing  the  character 
of  the  "pepper-box"  for  general  inaccuracy, 
pointed  his  find  at  a  comrade,  cried,  "Surrender,  or 
you're  a  dead  reb!"  and  pulled  the  trigger.  The 
deadly  accident  discharged  a  load  it  had  probably 
carried  ever  since  the  war  began.  The  living  tar 
get  fell  on  his  face  with  the  blood  streaming  from 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

his  mouth.  He  was  shot  through  the  lungs,  and 
died  in  a  few  minutes.  And  unanimously  the  man 
who  shot  him  was  condemned  with  savage  harsh 
ness,  unmollified  by  one  word  of  pity,  sympathy  or 
excuse. 

"What  do  you  think  a  revolver  is,"  demanded 
one  of  his  own  company,  "a  watch-charm?" 

Soldiers  do  not  "play"  at  war.  They  do  not  use 
their  arms  and  accouterments  as  playthings.  They 
do  not  care  to  "play"  soldier.  One  evening  after  a 
long  tramp  through  a  hilly  country  in  Mississippi 
we  went  into  camp  in  the  heart  of  a  nest  of  hills, 
rugged  and  ragged,  and  dense  with  woods  and  un 
dergrowth  and  tangling  vines,  with  water  hard  to 
get  at,  and  were  informed  that  we  would  remain  in 
camp  in  that  unpromising  land  for  about  three 
weeks. 

Such  a  shout  of  joy,  loud,  long-sustained  and 
oft-repeated,  as  went  up  from  three  hundred  tired 
men !  Why  ?  There  was  no  drill  ground.  No  wide 
stretches  of  level  fields ;  no  broad  valleys  where  we 
could  practise  methods  of  approaching  and  cross- 
30 


READY  TO  KILL  AND  TO  LAUGH 

ing  a  shallow  creek,  easy  to  ford,  but  just  as  wet 
to  the  feet  as  the  Pacific  Ocean.  The  soldier  did 
not  love  to  drill.  On  the  other  hand,  his  colonel 
was  perfectly  infatuated  with  the  game  of  war. 
And  brigade  drill !  This  is  the  delight  of  the  gen 
eral.  It  is  a  movement  in  masses.  The  regiment  is 
the  unit.  It  is  an  inspiring  spectacle  to  mounted 
officers.  To  the  infantryman,  down  in  the  dust  and 
stubble  of  old  cotton  and  corn-fields,  seeing  noth 
ing  but  the  monotonous  wheels  and  half-wheels, 
rights  and  lefts  into  line,  facings  and  halts,  it  is 
indescribably  dull  and  tiresome.  Occasionally, 
when  after  some  complicated  movements  he  finds 
himself  and  the  regiment  in  the  middle  of  the  many- 
acred  field,  perfectly  formed  in  the  most  beautiful 
hollow  square  a  brigadier  ever  smiled  down  upon, 
there  does  come  a  thrill  of  pride  and  delight  into 
his  soldierly  heart,  for  here  is  something  he  can 
appreciate.  He  brags  about  it  more  than  his  gen 
eral.  But,  as  a  rule,  he  classes  drill  with  hard 
work.  At  least  he  says  he  does. 
31 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

Laughter  Shakes  the  L'me  of  March 

But  if  a  soldier  grumbles  at  many  things,  he 
laughs  at  anything,  and  many  times  just  as  heart 
ily  he  laughs  at  nothing.  "For  once,  upon  a  raw 
and  gusty  day"  as  ever  "the  troubled  Tiber 
chafed,"  we  were  inarching  through  a  pelting  rain, 
splashing  through  the  slushy  mud.  A  tired  soldier 
sought  an  easier  footway  up  on  the  sloping  road 
side,  and  pulled  off'  both  shoes,  one  after  the  other, 
in  the  sticky  clay  bank, — an  insult  in  the  face  of 
misery.  The  men  who  saw  him  roared  with  pitiless 
mirth.  The  next  company,  which  could  not  see, 
howled  in  sympathy  with  laughter  they  could  not 
understand.  Down  the  line  it  went,  increasing  in 
volume  as  it  got  farther  away  from  the  cause  of  the 
unkindly  merriment.  The  regimental  teamsters 
caught  it  up,  and  their  stentorian  haw,  haw,  haws 
set  the  mules  to  braying.  This  passed  on  to  the 
Second  Iowa  Battery,  and  the  gunners  made  the 
soaking  welkin  ring  with  their  cachinnation.  It 
drifted  back  to  the  Eighth  Wisconsin,  and  they 
32 


READY  TO  KILL  AND  TO  LAUGH 

slapped  the  spray  out  of  their  soaking  trousers  as 
they  added  gesticulation  to  emphasize  their  guf 
faws.  And  all  along  the  column  the  straggling 
groups  of  happy  freedmen  shrieked  with  ignorant 
delight  after  the  manner  of  their  mirthful  kind. 

Well,  that's  one  mission  of  laughter.  Every 
soldier  will  tell  you  of  such  things.  There  is  one 
army  story  that  echoes  from  the  Potomac  to  the 
Mississippi.  Vociferous  cheering,  "a  cry  as  though 
the  Volscians  were  coming  o'er  the  wall,"  breaks 
out  at  some  point  in  the  marching  column.  It  goes 
down  the  line  of  march,  a  great  wave  of  laughter, 
cheering,  exultant;  increasing  in  jubilation  until  it 
reaches  the  rear-guard  in  a  mighty  climax  of  re 
joicing  uproar,  that  would  terrify  the  troopers  of 
the  enemy  hovering  on  our  rear,  but  that  they  un 
derstand  it  all  as  well  as  we,  for  the  custom  was  as 
one  in  both  Union  and  Confederate  armies.  Either 
a  favorite  general  has  galloped  down  the  column, 
or  a  frightened  rabbit  has  dashed  across  the  line  of 
march.  In  either  case  it  is  the  same — the  bravest 
of  the  brave,  the  fightingest  general  known  of  that 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

division,  or  the  timidest,  scared-to-deathiest  little 
animal  in  the  world  has  received  the  same  meed  of 
tumultuous  applause.  Every  veteran  will  tell  you 
that  his  regiment,  the  fighting  Hundred  and  Onety- 
Oncest,  had  an  exclusive  saying  on  such  occasions : 
"Old  Smith,  Mower,  Sherman,  Sheridan,  Hubbard, 
Logan,"  etc.,  etc.,  " — or  a  rabbit!" 

Camping  Stories  Ancient  and  Modern 

There  were  few  copyright  stories  in  the  army. 
A  California  regiment  crossing  the  plains  to  join 
the  army  east  of  the  Rockies  would  meet  its  own 
anecdotes,  told  with  a  nasal  twang  by  the  Steenth 
Vermont.  Army  stories  are  uniform  as  army  ra 
tions.  The  soldier  on  the  stormy  march  who  longed 
to  be  under  the  old  barn  at  home,  because  it  would 
be  so  easy  to  get  into  the  house ;  the  one  who  asked 
the  sutler  if  his  pies  were  sewed  or  pegged ;  the  one 
who,  when  the  dear  old  lady  listening  to  his  account 
of  the  battle  asked  him  why  he  didn't  get  behind  a 
tree,  scornfully  replied  that  there  weren't  half 
enough  trees  for  the  officers;  the  soldier  who  was 

34 


READY    TO    KILL    AND    TO    LAUGH 

surprised  on  picket  by  his  brigade  commander, 
with  his  gun  taken  apart,  oiling  it,  said,  "You  just 
wait  till  I  sort  o'  git  this  gun  sort  o'  stuck  together 
and  I'll  give  you  a  sort  o'  salute,"  was  a  Confed 
erate,  but  we  stole  his  story  just  the  same;  the  sol 
dier,  missing  everything  at  target  practise,  asked 
by  his  impatient  sergeant  where  under  the  sun  his 
shots  went,  who  replied,  "They  leave  here  all  right ; 
I  can't  tell  where  they  go  after  they  get  away  from 
me" ;  the  sentry  who  challenged,  "If  you  don't  say 
Vicksburg  mighty  quick  I'll  blow  your  head  off"; 
the  Irishman  who  said  "Bags"  when  the  counter 
sign  was  "Saxe";  the  slovenly  soldier  who,  repri 
manded  on  inspection  by  his  captain,  "How  long 
do  you  wear  a  shirt?"  replied,  "Thirty-four 
inches";  the  jayhawker  who  killed  a  sheep  in  self- 
defense  because  it  ran  after  him  and  tried  to  bite 
him;  all  these  narratives  and  many  more  were 
ascribed  to  men  in  my  own  regiment.  Quick  as 
we  heard  a  new  story  we  found  the  hero  of  it,  in 
our  own  ranks.  All  the  regiments  in  both  armies 
follow  the  same  patriotic  custom.  The  wrathful 
35 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

shout  of  Frederick  the  Great  to  his  recoiling  grena 
dier,  "What,  then,  do  you  want  to  live  forever?"  is 
repeated  of  every  colonel  since  his  day ;  we  told  it  of 
five  of  ours.  For  when  we  exchanged  stories  with 
our  prisoners,  hoping  to  get  some  new  anecdote 
material  for  our  regimental  fame,  lo,  the  captives 
of  our  bow  and  spear  told  us  our  own  threadbare 
tales  about  the  Eighth  Georgia  and  the  Louisiana 
Tigers.  Doubtless  the  guards  at  Libby  Prison 
suffered  the  same  bitterness  of  disappointment  when 
they  sought  to  add  to  their  own  stock  of  "the  best 
and  latest."  The  army  stories  with  which  the 
archers  of  Parthia  and  the  left-handed  slingers  of 
Benjamin  were  wont  to  set  the  tables  in  a  roar 
were  easily  adapted  to  the  stage  settings  of  the  time 
by  the  musketeers  of  Frederick  and  the  Grenadiers 
of  the  Old  Guard.  And  now  the  pontoon  stories 
are  the  uncopyrighted  property  of  the  aeroplanes 
and  dirigibles. 


IV 


STORMY  WEATHER  CHRISTIANS 

MAY  14,  1863,  and  a  rainy  morning  at  Missis 
sippi  Springs.  The  bugles  sang  reveille  as  sweetly 
as  though  the  sun  was  shining  on  the  drenched  vio 
lets  by  the  muddy  roadside  and  in  the  dripping 
woods.  The  drums  beat  sullenly,  for  like  many 
more  delicate  musicians  they  are  very  sensitive  to 
changes  of  the  weather,  and  never  like  to  get  their 
heads  wet.  It  takes  all  the  thrilling  "rat-a-plan" 
out  of  their  chest  notes,  and  makes  their  voices  flat 
and  tuneless  as  they  thump  out  "Three  Camps," 
"Slow  Scotch,"  their  double  drags  and  three  rolls. 

But  the  bugles ! 

Their  voices  never  change.    I  have  heard  them  in 

the  midst  of  the  storm  of  war  on  a  blood-drenched 

battle-field   come   ringing   down   the  broken   lines, 

breaking  through  the  pungent  powder  smoke,  their 

37 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

voices  of  command  clear  as  the  song  of  a  meadow- 
lark  calling  through  a  bank  of  fog  or  a  cloud  of 
drifting  mist.  Strangely  sweet,  the  bugle  call  in 
the  midst  of  the  battle  clamor — the  roar  of  the 
guns,  the  fierce  rattle  of  musketry,  "the  thunder 
of  the  captains  and  the  shouting."  Heart-break- 
ingly  sweet.  The  soldier  starts  sometimes  as 
though  he  heard  the  echo  of  his  mother's  voice 
calling  him  out  of  the  passion  of  carnage,  calling 
him  back  to  her  side — back  to  her  arms,  back  to 
her  tender  caresses,  soothing  the  storm  of  battle 
rage  in  his  young  heart, — calling  him  to  home  and 
peace,  with  the  old  love  songs,  the  cooing  dove  and 
the  whistling  robin. 

Then  the  bugle,  sweetly  as  ever,  calls  yet  more 
insistently,  and  a  great  thundering  shout  from  the 
colonel  drowns  the  mother- voice — "Fix  bayonets! 
Forward — guide  center — double  quick — follow  me, 
boys !"  And  the  wave  of  the  charge  carries  the  line 
forward  on  a  billow  of  cheers  in  a  tempest  of  fight 
ing  madness.  And  still  the  bugle  calls,  just  as 
sweetly  and  just  as  insistently,  as  though  a  beauti- 

38 


STORMY    WEATHER    CHRISTIANS 

ful  queen  were  urging  her  soldiers  on  to  glory  and 
victory — Deborah  singing  The  Charge: 


How  can  anything  so  beautiful  set  a  man  on  to 
fight  and  kill?  Well,  it  does.  A  soldier  in  a 
fatigue  uniform  looks  like  a  dude  alongside  of  a 
civilian  in  his  fishing  clothes.  There  is  good  music 
in  the  beer  halls ;  better,  sometimes,  than  you  can 
hear  in  your  home  church.  A  regiment  marching 
down  street  behind  its  military  band  Sunday 
morning  is  far  more  alluring  in  appearance  than 
the  throngs  of  worshipers  straggling  along  to  wor 
ship.  Why  is  a  battle-ship  more  attractive  than  a 
ferry-boat? 

The  Lure  of  the  Fighting  Spirit 

If  you  are  walking  with  a  friend,  and  pass  an 
old  man,  white-haired,  face  lined  with  furrows  of 
time  and  thought  and  toil,  stoop-shouldered,  lean 
ing  heavily  on  his  cane  as  he  steadies  his  steps,  and 
39 


THE    DRUMS    OP    THE    47TH 

the  friend  says  to  you,  "That  is  Doctor  Soulsaver ; 
he  has  been  pastor  of  the  same  church  in  this  city 
fifty-two  years,  and  his  people  won't  let  him  re 
sign." 

You  say  "Uh-huh!"  glance  around  at  the  old 
man  as  he  totters  by,  and  go  on  talking.  But  if 
you  meet  a  man  with  his  civilian  suit  cut  in  military 
fashion,  a  white  mustache  ornamenting  a  bronzed 
face,  swinging  his  cane  to  show  that  he  carries  it 
as  a  plaything,  and  your  companion  says : 

"That's  General  Smasher ;  he's  been  in  the  army 
since  he  was  a  boy ;  been  in  more  battles  than  any 
man  living;  been  wounded  ten  times;  the  hardest 
fighter  in  the  American  army ;  never  was  whipped." 

You  stop  and  look  after  the  old  mustache  until 
you  forget  what  you  had  been  talking  about.  You'd 
like  to  meet  that  man.  Why  didn't  you  run  after 
the  old  preacher  and  shake  hands  with  him  ?  You're 
a  church  member.  Why  did  you  feel  more  interest 
in  the  old  soldier?  You  tell. 

Why  isn't  virtue  as  alluring  to  the  senses  as  evil  ? 
Better  is  wisdom  than  folly ;  sweeter,  purer,  nobler, 

40 


STORMY    WEATHER    CHRISTIANS 

lovelier.  Yet  it  is  written,  "When  we  shall  see  Him, 
there  is  no  beauty  that  we  should  desire  Him." 

Sunny  mornings  or  rainy  mornings,  the  bugles 
sang  as  cheerily  as  so  many  meadow-larks,  the  bird 
with  never  a  plaintive  note  in  his  song,  whether  the 
wind  blow  from  the  south  with  perfume,  north  with 
biting  cold,  or  east  with  fog  and  rain,  or  west  with 
a  roaring  cyclone.  And  this  morning  the  bugles 
called  out  of  the  soaking  chrysalides  of  the  blankets 
a  lot  of  crowing  soldiers  who  echoed  the  bugles  in 
their  own  music.  A  soldier's  dreams  must  be  sweet, 
for  always — so  nearly  always  the  exceptions  are 
not  worth  noting — he  wakes  up  in  high  good 
humor.  Such  good  medicine  is  sleep.  And  he  sings 
the  reveille  with  the  bugles — 
REVEILLE 

The  day-star  shines  upon  the  hill, 

The  valley  in  the  shadows  sleep; 
In  wood  and  thicket,  dark  and  still, 

My  comrades  lie  in  slumber  deep; 
Far  in  the  east  a  phantom  gray 

Steals  slowly  up  the  night's  black  pall, 
And,  herald  of  the  coming  day, 

Softly  the  distant  bugles  call — 
41 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 


"I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up  in  the  morning! 
I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up  at  all !" 

A  thought  of  motion  at  the  sound, 

As  though  the  forest  drew  its  breath, 
And  belted  sleepers  on  the  ground 

Move  restlessly,  like  life  in  death; 
And  slumberous  echoes,  here  and  there, 

Awaken  as  the  challenge  floats, 
And  clearer  on  the  morning  air 

Ring  out  the  cheery  bugle  notes — 


^g^pjg^jgir^jcy-cziirpr^^p-^  _g"}   [ 


"The  corp'ral's  worse  than  the  private, 
The  sergeant's  worse  than  the  corp'ral, 

The  lieut.  is  worse  than  the  sergeant, 
And  the  captain's  the  worst  of  alii" 


STORMY   WEATHER    CHRISTIANS 

And  while  the  thrilling  strains  prolong, 

Flames  into  rose  and  gold  the  day, 
And  springing  up  with  shout  and  song, 

Each  soldier  welcomes  march  or  fray; 
Through  wooded  vale,  o'er  wind-swept  hill, 

Where  camp-fires  gleam  and  shadows  fall, 
Louder  and  sweeter,  cheerily  still, 

Ring  out  the  merry  bugle's  call — 

"I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up  in  the  morning! 
I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up, 
I  can't  get  'em  up  at  all !" 

A  cold  breakfast,  scalded  down  with  boiling  cof 
fee,  black  as  night  and  strong  as  prejudice,  put 
the  spring  in  our  heels,  and  we  were  ready  for  what 
ever  the  day  might  bring  to  us.  We  twisted  our 
wet  blankets,  a  load  in  themselves,  and  looped  them 
over  our  shoulders.  My  regiment  was  a  marching 
and  fighting  regiment,  and  knapsacks  were  luxuries 
of  effeminacy,  indulged  in  only  in  winter  quarters. 
The  sodden  drums  beat  a  doleful  accompaniment 
to  the  merry  squeaking  of  the  fifes  as  they  whistled 

43 


THE    DRUMS   OF   THE    47TH 

us  out  of  camp  into  the  canal-like  road  with  Garry 
Owen  na  gloria.  Splash,  splash,  splash,  through 
the  mud.  We  wrapped  ourselves  in  the  shelter  of 
our  rubber  blankets.  But  the  steady  rain  found 
open  folds  at  our  necks,  and  crept  in  and  trickled 
down  our  backs  in  little  zigzag  trails  of  moisture 
that  found  its  way  down  into  our  shoes.  As  long  as 
a  soldier  can  keep  his  feet  dry,  he  is  comparatively 
comfortable.  But  when  the  water  begins  to  sqush, 
sqush,  in  his  shoes,  Comfort  bids  him  a  reluctant 
farewell,  and  Misery,  perching  heavily  between  his 
shoulders,  says: 

"Would  you  mind  carrying  me  until  it  clears 
off?" 

The  warrior  does  "mind,"  but  carries  him  just 
the  same.  His  feet  slip  in  the  mud,  and  this  makes 
marching  hard  and  slow.  A  calvaryman,  galloping 
down  the  column  with  an  order  from  the  front  to  the 
rear,  or  vice  versa,  splatters  the  infantryman  from 
head  to  foot  with  mud  and  water,  and  is  pursued 
for  the  next  three  miles  of  his  career  with  volleys 
of  sarcastic  and  abusive  comments  on  his  horseman- 

44 


STORMY    WEATHER    CHRISTIANS 

ship,  his  horse,  his  yellow  stripes,  his  clanking 
saber,  his  personal  worthlessness  and  his  disgrace 
ful  pedigree  that  make  his  ears  tingle  and  his  heart 
boil  with  wrath.  A  baggage  wagon  stalls  on  a 
steep  hill,  and  the  soldiers  come  to  the  rescue  of  the 
struggling  mules  and  help  them  up  the  long 
muddy  Hill  of  Difficulty,  the  name  of  which  is 
Legion. 

"What's  in  that  wagon?"  asks  a  recruit  who  has 
twice  fallen  in  the  mud,  in  his  zeal  to  do  his  whole 
duty  by  the  mules.  "Ammunition?" 

"Naw!"  scornfully  replies  the  veteran.  "Sup 
pose  I'd  break  my  back  pushin'  a  load  of  ammuni 
tion?  Them's  hardtack." 

And  that's  worth  while,  and  the  soldier  hopes  his 
long-eared  comrades  will  reciprocate  his  help  and 
bring  that  wagon  into  camp  on  time  at  night. 

The  Soldier's  Rainy-Day  Religion 

Splash,  splash,  splash.  The  arms  ache  with  the 
weariness  of  carrying  the  musket  in  one  position, 
and  that  not  the  easiest  one  by  any  means.  But  the 
musket  is  as  precious  as  the  hardtack.  The  soldier 

45 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

may  get  soaked  to  the  bone.  He'll  fight  just  as 
well.  But  that  gun  must  be  kept  dry.  He  carries 
it  at  "secure,"  under  his  arm  and  under  the  pro 
tection  of  his  rubber  blanket.  Now  and  then  he 
looks  at  the  hammer  and  nipple  to  see  that  they  are 
dry.  He  may  want  to  use  that  piece  of  hand  ar 
tillery  before  night,  and  he  cares  for  it  like  a  baby. 
He  may  have  to  shoot  somebody  with  it  some  time 
during  the  day.  And  suppose,  when  that  time 
comes,  the  powder  in  the  musket  is  wet.  How  can 
he  carry  out  the  decrees  of  fate  concerning  the  man 
he  is  detailed  to  kill?  Wet  powder  has  no  more 
place  in  a  musket  than  a  knot-hole  in  a  barb-wire 
fence. 

He  has  to  stop  wasting  caps,  and  pick  dry  pow 
der  into  the  nipple  with  a  pin.  Tedious  work  it  is, 
and  the  unpleasantest  thing  about  it  is  that  the  man 
he  was  to  kill  may  get  tired  of  waiting  and  fill  him 
full  of  large  irregular  holes  by  way  of  reproach  for 
his  dilatory  tactics. 

Really,  the  soldier  grumbles  less  and  wants  to 
fight  more,  in  all  the  discomforts  and  irritations  of 

46 


STORMY    WEATHER    CHRISTIANS 

a  stormy  day  over  muddy  roads  in  a  hilly  country, 
than  he  does  in  June  weather  through  a  pleasant 
land.  He'd  like  to  fight  the  people  whose  conduct 
has  dragged  him  away  from  his  happy  home.  But 
if  one  of  his  comrades  loses  patience  and  breaks 
forth  in  bitter  reviling  of  the  rain  and  mud  and  the 
war,  he  helps  to  smother  him  in  an  avalanche  of 
raillery  and  chaff.  After  that  the  column  is  in  a 
happy  self -approving  frame  of  mind  for  several 
miles.  The  worst  environments  bring  out  the  best 
in  the  soldier.  He  braces  himself  to  meet  adversity, 
as  he  would  meet  any  other  enemy.  He  prides  him 
self  on  being  above  the  demoralizing  influences  that 
break  down  weak  men.  He  may  swear  a  little,  which 
is  more  than  enough ;  and  he  may  drink  too  much, 
which  is  when  he  drinks  at  all.  And  he  kills  a  few 
people.  Which  is  his  first  and  constant  duty. 
What's  a  soldier  for  ?  But  he  believes  in  rainy-day 
religion.  His  standard  of  manhood  is  high,  and  he 
found  it  in  the  Book  his  mother  gave  him :  "If  thou 
faint  in  the  day  of  adversity,  thy  faith  is  small." 

47 


THE  MURDER 

THEY  killed  him  on  the  early  afternoon  of  a  May 
day,  May  14, 1863.  We  never  found  the  man  who 
did  the  deed,  although  there  was  no  pretense  of  con 
cealment  about  it.  It  was  committed  in  broad  day 
light,  in  the  presence  of  hundreds  of  men.  The 
murder  was  officially  reported,  but  there  was  no  in 
vestigation.  Indeed,  it  was  not  called  a  "murder" 
at  all.  It  was  simply  reported  as  a  "casualty." 
"Casualty" — "what  happens  by  chance,"  the  dic 
tionary  says;  "an  unfortunate  accident,  especially 
one  resulting  in  bodily  injury  or  death;  specifically, 
disability  or  loss  of  life  in  military  service."  It  is 
something  to  be  expected.  It  is  taken  for  granted. 
But  the  man  himself,  who  made  the  accusation  as 
he  was  dying,  called  it  "murder." 

A  dull  staccato  thunder  of  guns  in  the  distant 
.48 


THE    MURDER 

front,  a  galloping  staff-orderly  giving  an  order  to 
Colonel  Cromwell,  which  he  shouted  to  us ;  a  sudden 
barking  of  many  commands  from  the  line  officers ; 
a  double-quicking  of  the  column  into  the  line,  and 
almost  in  the  time  I  have  written  it  we  were  in  line 
of  battle  in  the  woods  before  Jackson,  Mississippi. 
I  heard  Captain  Frank  Biser  shouting  his  custom 
ary  "instructions  to  skirmishers"  as  he  deployed 
A  and  B  Companies  into  the  skirmish  line,  and 
they  disappeared  amid  the  scrub  oaks, — "Keep 
up  a  rapid  fire  in  the  general  direction  of  the  enemy, 
and  yell  all  the  time!"  He  was  very  specific  re 
garding  the  kind  of  "yelling,"  which  was  to  be 
emphatically  sulphurous.  The  regiment  followed 
to  the  brow  of  the  hill  that  looked  down  on  the  creek 
winding  in  muddy  swirls  and  many  meanderings 
across  the  level  meadows.  Far  to  our  right  we  could 
hear  our  own  battery,  the  Second  Iowa,  its  bronze 
Napoleons  throbbing  like  a  heart  of  fire.  And  at 
our  left  the  Waterhouse  Battery,  of  Chicago,  was 
baying  like  a  wolf-hound  at  the  gray  battalions 
down  by  the  little  Pearl  River.  We  were  support- 

49 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

ing  that  battery.    And  we  were  ordered  to  lie  down 
and  keep  ourselves  out  of  sight. 

The  Man  Who  Stumbled 

This  seemed  to  me  excessive  caution.  I  was  a 
recruit  in  my  first  battle.  I  called  it  a  battle.  The 
old  soldiers  spoke  of  it  as  a  fight.  Whatever  it  was, 
I  wanted  to  see  it.  I  rose  up  on  my  knees  to  look 
about  me.  It  didn't  look  like  any  picture  of  a 
battle  I  ever  saw  in  a  book.  The  man  with  whom 
I  touched  elbows  at  my  right,  Doc  Worthington, 
of  Peoria,  and  an  old  schoolfellow  before  we  were 
comrades,  said  with  a  note  of  admiration  in  his 
voice : 

"Haven't  those  fellows  got  a  splendid  line  ?" 
I  saw  the  long  line  of  gray-jacketed  skirmishers 
doing  a  beautiful  skirmish  drill.  Puff-puff-puff 
the  little  clouds  of  blue  smoke  broke  out  from  the 
gray  line  moving  through  the  mist  that  was  drift 
ing  across  the  field.  I  saw  the  blue-bloused  skirmish 
line  come  into  view  from  the  woods  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  I  saw  a  man  stumble  and  fall  on  his  face. 

50 


THE    MURDER 

Not  until  he  did  not  get  up  and  go  on  with  the  ad 
vancing  line  did  I  realize  that  he  had  not  stumbled. 

I  had  a  strange  trouble  with  my  breath  for  a  boy 
with  lungs  like  a  colt  and  a  heart  that  is  strong 
unto  this  day.  An  officer  came  riding  down  the  line, 
pulled  up  his  horse,  asked  a  soldier  for  a  match, 
calmly  lighted  his  pipe,  puffed  it  into  energetic  ac 
tion,  and  rode  down  the  hill  after  the  skirmishers. 
How  I  admired  his  wonderful  coolness!  By  the 
time  I  went  into  the  next  battle  I  knew  that  the 
pipe  trick  was  not  a  symptom  of  daredevil,  reck 
less  coolness,  but  only  of  natural  human  nervous 
ness.  The  man  smoked  because  he  was  too  nervous 
not  to. 

I  saw  the  skirmishers  now  and  then  rush  suddenly 
together,  rallying  by  fours  and  squads  as  a  little 
troop  of  cavalry  menaced  the  line  with  a  rush, — a 
charge,  we  called  it  then.  I  saw  them  deploy  just 
as  quickly,  and  heard  them  cheering  as  a  rapid 
volley  admonished  the  troopers  with  a  few  empty 
saddles.  Then  I  saw  the  gray  line  advance  reso 
lutely,  and  with  much  dodging  and  zigzagging  our 

51 


THE    DRUMS    OF   THE    47TH 

own  skirmishers  were  slowly  falling  back  to  their 
line  of  support.  The  guns  of  the  Waterhouse  bat 
tery,  fiercely  augmenting  their  clamorous  barking, 
suddenly  fell  silent.  The  gunners  swabbed  out  the 
hot  cannon  and  then  stood  at  their  stations. 

"Why  do  they  stop  firing?"  I  asked. 

"They  are  letting  the  guns  cool,"  said  a  cor 
poral. 

"They  are  going  to  get  out  of  this,"  said  Worth- 
ington;  "those  fellows  are  coming  up  the  hill." 

I  was  looking  at  a  young  artilleryman.  He  was 
half  seated  on  the  hub  of  one  of  the  Waterhouse 
guns,  resting  his  face  against  the  arm  with  which 
he  cushioned  the  rim  of  the  wheel.  He  was  a 
boy  about  my  own  age,  not  over  nineteen.  He 
was  tired,  for  serving  the  guns  in  hot  action  is 
fast  work  and  hard  work.  His  lips  were  parted 
with  his  quick  breathing.  He  lifted  his  face  and 
smiled  at  some  remark  made  to  him  by  one  of  the 
gunners,  and  his  face  was  handsome  in  its  anima 
tion — a  beautiful  boy. 

I  heard  a  sound  such  as  I  had  never  heard  be- 


THE    MURDER 

fore,  but  I  shuddered  as  I  heard  it, — dull  and  cruel 
and  deadly.  A  hideous  sound,  fearsome  and  hate 
ful. 

The  young  artilleryman  leaped  to  his  feet,  his 
face  lifted  toward  the  gray  sky,  his  hands  tossed 
above  his  head.  He  reeled,  and  as  a  comrade 
sprang  to  catch  him  in  his  arms  the  boy  cried, 
his  voice  shrilling  down  the  line: 

"Murder,  boys!     Murder!     Oh,  murder!" 

He  clasped  his  hands  over  a  splotch  of  crimson 
that  was  widening  on  the  blue  breast  of  his  red- 
trimmed  jacket  and  fell  into  the  strong  arms  of  the 
comrades  who  carried  him  to  the  rear.  Him,  or — It. 

The  rain  began  again  and  the  warm  drops  fell 
like  tears  upon  his  white  face,  as  though  angels 
were  weeping  above  him.  I  watched  the  men  carry 
him  away  to  where  the  yellow  flag  marked  the  mercy 
station  of  the  field  hospital. 

Fear,  before  unfelt  because  unknown,  clutched 
my  heart  like  the  hand  of  death,  with  the  voice  of 
that  hissing  spiteful  bullet.  My  very  soul  was 
faint. 

53 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

I  did  not  know — I  shall  never  know — who  shot 
this  boy.  Nor,  I  think,  does  the  man  who  killed 
him.  Another  boy,  maybe.  For  there  were  as  many 
schoolboys  in  the  Confederate  armies,  it  seemed  to 
me,  as  men. 

What  Friends  They  Might  Have  Been! 

Why,  the  war  was  only  a  year  old.  The  boy  who 
fired  that  rifle-shot — his  mother's  good-by  kisses 
were  yet  warm  on  his  cheeks  and  lips.  Only  yester 
day  his  sister  unwound  her  arms  from  their  caress 
ing  clasp  about  his  neck  to  let  him  go  to  the  war. 
Such  a  warm-hearted  boy  he  was,  they  would  tefl 
you.  Affectionate  as  a  girl.  A  loving,  impulsive 
southern  boy.  From  the  time  that  he  first  knelt  at 
his  mother's  knee  and  learned  the  prayer  that  all 
mothers,  north  and  south,  teach  their  boys  alike, 
he  had  knelt  morning  and  evening  before  the  Prince 
of  Peace  and  prayed  that  his  heart  might  be  kept 
pure  and  sweet,  and  gentle  and  kind. 

And  now? 

54. 


THE    MURDER 

See  what  he  had  done !  He  had  committed  a  deed 
of  death  so  far  away  from  all  his  boyish  thoughts 
that  he  had  never  prayed  against  it. 

And  the  boy  from  the  Northland  whom  he  had 
shot  —  the  other  boy,  who  had  been  trying  to 
kill  him  with  the  terrible  six-pounders.  Why,  his 
mother,  too,  had  kissed  him  good-by  in  the  doorway 
of  that  far-away  Illinois  home,  with  her  tears  rain 
ing  through  her  kisses,  just  as  the  rain-drops  of 
the  May  shower  fell  upon  his  white  face  a  minute 
ago.  His  sister  had  sobbed  her  good-by  as  she  held 
him  close  against  the  heart  that  had  loved  him  since 
he  was  her  tiny  baby  brother — the  heart  that  now 
would  break  for  him.  A  quiet  gentle  boy,  they 
would  tell  you.  Always  that  smile  on  his  face  I 
had  just  seen.  And  all  the  years,  as  he  knelt  with 
bowed  head  and  clasped  hands,  unknown  to  each 
other,  his  prayers  and  those  of  the  Alabama  boy 
had  mingled  as  they  ascended  to  the  same  heavenly 
Father. 

What  true-hearted  friends  they  might  have  been, 
55 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

those  two  boys,  had  they  met  some  time  other  than 
that  sunless  rain-swept  day  in  May.  And  yet,  not 
half  an  hour  ago,  the  boy  from  Illinois  had  been 
working  at  those  murderous  guns  like  a  blacksmith 
at  his  forge.  When  his  gun,  with  a  fierce  breath 
of  flame  roared  its  defiance,  shook  out  a  murky 
banner  of  blue  smoke,  and  sent  its  messenger  of 
death  screaming  into  a  group  of  men  and  boys  down 
in  the  meadow,  how  quickly  that  boy  from  Illinois 
sprang  with  his  sponge  staff  to  wipe  the  black 
powder  stains  from  the  grim  lips,  and  cooled  the 
rifled  throat,  hot  with  hate  and  death.  How  proudly 
he  patted  its  grim  sides  when  it  made  a  "good  shot" 
— that  is,  when  it  killed  somebody.  And  then,  sit 
ting  on  the  hub  of  the  wheel,  the  battle  rage  sub 
siding  in  his  heart  as  the  sullen  gun  cooled  at  his 
side,  the  longing  came  dreaming  into  his  eyes,  his 
thoughts  drifted  away  to  a  home  up  beside  Lake 
Michigan,  his  mother  and  sister  came  into  his 
heart — 

And  then  a  boy  not  unlike  himself,  a  boy  who 
had  been  watching  the  deadly  work  of  the  Water- 
56 


THE    MURDER 

house  guns,  a  boy  standing  in  a  little  clump  of 
bushes  in  their  May  bloom,  raised  his  rifle,  aimed 
carefully  at  the  cloud  of  smoke  drifting  slowly  away 
from  the  last  shot  of  that  terrible  gun,  and,  with 
out  knowing  or  seeing  who  was  sitting  behind  that 
beautiful  screen,  fired. 

And  killed  a  boy  to  whom  his  soul  might  have 
knitted  itself,  even  as  the  soul  of  Jonathan  clave  to 
David. 

"Murder !    Oh,  murder,  boys  !    Murder !" 
Well  for  that  boy  in  the  Southland  that  he  could 
not  hear  that  cry.    And  well  for  all  our  boys  in  all 
our  land  if  they  shall  never  hear  it. 

The  Cry  Through  the  Starlight 

The  bugles  called  sweetly  and  imperiously,  the 
colonel's  voice  rang  out  stern,  peremptory,  inspir 
ing,  the  line  sprang  to  its  feet,  and  with  mighty 
shouting  rushed  forward  like  unleashed  dogs  of 
war.  Thundering  guns,  rattling  musketry,  cheer 
ing  and  more  cheering,  a  triumphant  charge,  a  wild 
pursuit,  a  mad  dash — we  were  over  the  works  and 
57 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

into  the  city.  That  night  my  regiment  bivouacked 
in  the  pleasant  grounds  of  the  beautiful  capitol  of 
Mississippi.  My  first  battle,  and  it  was  a  victory — 
a  victory — a  brilliant  victory!  And  I  had  a  sol 
dier's  part  in  it.  How  proud  I  was!  I  could  not 
sleep.  I  mentally  indited  a  dozen  letters  home. 
And  again  I  whispered  a  prayer,  and  looked  up  my 
good-night  at  the  stars. 

Calm,  silent,  tranquil.  Undimmed  by  the  smoke 
of  the  guns.  Unstained  by  the  blood  that  had 
smeared  the  meadow  daisies.  Unshaken  by  all  the 
tumult  of  charging  battalions.  Sweet  and  pure, 
the  glittering  constellations  looked  down  upon  the 
trampled  field  and  the  dismantled  forts.  Looked 
down  upon  the  little  world  in  which  men  lived  and 
slept ;  loved  and  hated ;  fought  and  died.  The  quiet, 
blessed,  peaceful  starlight. 

Far  away,  yet  thrilling  as  a  night  alarm,  came 
dropping  down  through  the  starlight  the  cry  that 
went  up  from  the  sodden  earth  ages  and  ages  ago : 

"Murder!    Oh,  murder!" 

My  thoughts  went  northward,  because  I  could 
$8 


THE    MURDER 

not  sleep,  to  the  little  home  in  Peoria  where  mother 
and  sisters  waited  for  me.  Slowly,  although  I  tried 
to  keep  them  away,  my  thoughts  came  back  to  the 
battery  on  the  brow  of  the  wooded  hill  where  the 
purple  violets  smiled  through  the  strangling  smoke 
of  the  guns.  With  a  troubled  mind  I  thought  of 
other  mothers  and  sisters  who  waited  in  northern 
and  southern  homes.  I  laid  my  arm  across  my  face 
to  shut  out  something  that  dimmed  the  starlight 
and  marred  the  glory  of  victory  with  the  stain  that 
marked  the  altar  of  prayer  and  sacrifice  when  the 
world  was  young  and  fair.  I  would  not  allow  my 
self  to  think  of  hideous  and  hateful  things.  I 
would  think  of  love  and  home,  and  the  whistle  of 
the  robin,  the  song  of  the  meadow-lark,  and  the 
mother  voice,  soft  and  sweet  and  dovelike,  cooing 
the  old  love-songs. 

Still,  even  as  I  slept  and  dreamed  of  a  victory 
won  and  of  other  fields  of  glory  and  triumph  to 
come,  down  through  the  starlight  came  the  echo  of 
that  fainting  cry  under  the  wheels  of  the  guns : 

"Murder !    Murder,  boys !     Oh,  murder !" 
59 


VI 


THE    FLAG 

WHEN  the  bugles  have  called  a  sweet  "tira-lira- 
la"  that  sounds  more  like  the  refrain  of  an  old  love- 
song  than  a  battle-cry,  a  thrilling  call,  a  magic 
word,  that  suddenly  opens  the  long  marching  col 
umn  like  the  sticks  of  a  colossal  human  fan,  in 
fantry  and  batteries  double-quicking  or  galloping 
to  right  and  left  into  the  extended  battle-line,  there 
follows  a  halt  of  preparation.  The  panting  line 
is  quickly  "dressed" ;  and  as  a  hurrying  aide  halts 
beside  our  colonel,  hastily  to  explain  to  him  the  posi 
tion  of  the  batteries  and  the  other  infantry  regi 
ments  with  reference  to  his  own  command,  the  adju 
tant  fires  an  order  or  two  at  us : 

"Front!"     "Or-<fcr— h'arms !" 

Then  the  colonel  commands,  in  a  tone  so  intense 
that  it  reaches  center  and  flanks  at  once : 

"Load  at  will— load!" 

60 


THE    FLAG 

The  metallic  ringing  of  the  rammers  springing 
from  their  sockets;  the  thud — thud — thud  as  they 
drive  the  cartridges  home;  the  clicks  that  tell  the 
colonel  the  hammers  are  back  on  the  caps,  and  the 
life  of  a  man  is  hidden  away  in  the  breech  of  the 
rifle.  Then— 

"Fix— bayonets !" 

Rattle  and  click  of  metal  against  metal  all  along 
the  line. 

"Carry— h'arms !" 

And  the  regiment  stands  as  on  parade  or  review. 
At  "carry,"  because,  under  the  old  Hardee  tactics, 
at  "carry"  the  musket  was  most  readily  raised  to 
"aim"  or  dropped  to  "charge  bayonets."  Now  we 
are  ready  for  anything.  A  bugle  calls  again, 
sweetly  as  a  mother  might  call  her  laughing  chil 
dren  in  from  play.  The  colonel  interprets  the  well- 
known  syllables — 

"Forward — guide  center — h'march !" 

When  We  Marched  Without  Music 
The  line  moves  forward.     Not  a  note  of  music. 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

Not  the  flam  of  a  single  drum  to  time  the  steps. 
Our  feet  brush  like  loud  whispers  through  the  stub 
ble  of  the  field,  or  fall  almost  noiselessly  on  the  turf 
of  the  meadow,,  or  rustle  through  the  leaves  of  the 
forest  as  our  shoulders  brush  against  the  low-hang 
ing  boughs.  The  intense  silence  of  the  advancing 
line  is  more  sublimely  impressive  than  all  the  blare 
and  crash  of  the  noisy  instruments  of  military  mu 
sic.  We  are  marching  into  battle.  The  whole  line 
is  a  living  creature,  with  thought  and  feeling  too 
profound  for  boisterous  expression. 

As  the  line  moves  forward  a  man  occasionally 
lifts  his  head  the  least  angle  in  the  world  and  raises 
his  eyes  a  trifle  as  they  turn  toward  the  center  of 
the  regiment.  There,  fluttering  in  the  sunshine 
like  a  beautiful  flower  with  wings  and  a  soul,  is 
what  welds  all  the  hearts  in  the  regiment  into  one. 
No  two  men  in  the  line  could  express  their  sentiment 
in  the  same  phrase,  but  they  all  think  the  same 
thing.  Any  man  who  marches  under  that  flag  is 
worth  dying  for.  The  sun  shines  like  a  golden  flame 
through  a  great  rent  in  its  blue  field.  That  was  a 


THE    FLAG 

shell,  gnashing  its  savage  teeth  as  it  tore  through 
the  galaxy  of  the  stars.  In  the  red  stripes  half  a 
dozen  stars  of  sunshine  gleam.  Those  were  Minie 
bullets  that  bit  as  they  snarled  through  the  silken 
folds.  There  are  inscriptions,  faint  with  many 
storms  on  the  fluttering  folds.  The  soldier  knows 
the  ragged  letters  by  heart— "luka" ;  "Corinth" ; 
"Jackson";  "Vicksburg."  And  to-morrow  there 
will  be  a  new  name — fresh  and  clear.  And  a  few 
names  less  on  the  regimental  roster. 

Every  time  Honor  writes  a  new  battle  name  in 
gold  on  the  flag  she  blots  the  names  of  a  few  men 
off  the  regimental  roll,  in  blood.  That's  the  price 
of  the  battle  inscriptions.  That's  what  makes  them 
so  precious.  The  inscriptions  are  laid  on  in  gold, 
underlaid  and  made  indelible  with  blood.  No  won 
der  the  Flag  seems  to  be  a  thing  of  life.  Every 
fold  in  it  is  aquiver  with  human  hearts.  When  it 
is  fluttering  in  the  wind,  it  is  throbbing.  When  it 
is  unfurled  in  the  rain,  it  weeps.  The  Flag — that 
is  the  Heart  of  the  Regiment.  And  that  it  may 
never  grow  weak  with  the  years  and  service,  in 
63 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

every  battle  new  hearts,  young  and  brave  and  loyal, 
are  transfused  into  the  quivering  veins  of  red  and 
white;  into  the  stars  of  gold  on  the  field  of  blue. 
It  is  the  living  history  of  the  regiment.  It  is  the 
roster  of  the  heroic  dead,  woven  into  the  story  of 
its  many  conflicts.  It  is  memory  and  inspiration. 
It  is  the  visible  soul  of  a  cause.  So  the  men  of  the 
Union  looked  upon  "Old  Glory."  So  the  men  of 
the  Confederacy  gazed  upon  the  "Stars  and  Bars" 
in  the  days  of  its  hopes,  when  it  flamed  above  fight 
ing  legions  of  the  South. 

I  have  seen  it  written  that  with  the  coming  days 
of  arms  of  precision  and  long  range  a  general  who 
would  order  his  troops  into  action  with  a  flag  flut 
tering  above  the  line  to  mark  the  location  of  every 
regiment  would  be  court-martialed,  charged  with 
the  murder  of  his  men.  Maybe  so. 

But  I  can't  see  how  men  could  go  into  battle 
without  the  Flag  to  glance  at  now  and  again. 

What  reverence  could  a  man  have  for  a  flag  with 
out  a  wound?  How  could  you  call  a  flag  that  wal 
lowed  its  beautiful  folds  down  in  the  dust  all 
64 


THE    FLAG 

through  a  fight  "a  battle  flag"?     What  is  a  flag 
for? 

Why,  when  the  bugle  sounded  the  call  for  battle, 
quick  as  thought  the  color-sergeant  loosened  the 
lacing  which  bound  the  marching  rain-proof  case 
around  the  flag  and  the  corporals  of  the  color-guard 
snatched  the  covering  off  the  National  and  the  Reg 
imental  colors;  the  sergeants  shook  the  beautiful 
standards  out  of  their  folds;  the  sunshine  kissed 
them  and  the  winds  caressed  them  and  tossed  them 
in  their  arms — glad  to  see  something  as  free  as 
themselves  released  from  the  darkness.  On  the 
march  the  flag  was  cased  against  sun,  rain  and  dust, 
that  it  might  look  brave  as  a  bridegroom  when  it 
led  the  way  to  honor  and  victory.  That  was  when 
we  wanted  to  show  our  colors — when  the  enemy 
could  see  us. 

"Here  we  are !"  the  Flag  shouts  to  the  skirmish- 
line,  feeling  its  way  through  the  dense  woods  hunt 
ing  for  us ;  "Here  we  are !  This  is  My  Regiment, 
right  under  my  folds !  Train  your  guns  this  way ! 
You'll  find  us  more  easily  than  you  can  lose  us !" 
65 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

What  Is  a  Flag  For? 

On  every  battle-flag  might  be  inscribed  a  para 
phrase  of  that  splendid  defiance  of  William  Lloyd 
Garrison : 

"I  am  in  earnest — I  will  not  retreat  a  single  inch 
—and  I  WILL  BE  SEEN!" 

That's  what  a  Flag  is  for.  How  do  you  carry 
yours,  Christian? 

A  man  doesn't  love  anything  or  anybody  very 
well  unless  he  is  ready  to  die  for  it. 

Not  necessarily  to  kill  some  one  else,  you  under 
stand.  But  to  die  yourself.  To  "present  your 
body,  a  living  sacrifice." 

I  suppose  that  is  one  thing  that  made  the  church 
so  inexpressibly  precious  to  the  early  Christians. 
So  many  people  died  for  it.  First,  Christ,  the  only 
world  conqueror  in  all  history,  the  great  Captain 
whose  hand  never  curved  around  a  sword-hilt,  and 
who  forbade  his  soldiers  to  slay  or  to  smite.  Then, 
generation  after  generation,  the  bravest  soldiers  the 
world  ever  saw,  with  peace  in  their  hands  and  love 
in  their  hearts^  met  the  armies  of  the  nations,  died 

66 


THE    FLAG 

for  the  truth  and  vanquished  their  persecutors,  un 
til  the  Cross  gleamed  in  holy  triumph  above  the 
circus  of  Nero  and  the  Coliseum,  and  the  Legions 
ceased  to  be.  That  is  fighting  love — the  kind  that 
conquers. 

My  regiment  was  one  of  the  four  which,  with  the 
Second  Iowa  battery,  composed  what  is  known  as 
"The  Eagle  Brigade,"  from  the  fact  that  the 
Eighth  Wisconsin  Regiment  of  that  brigade  car 
ried  a  young  American  eagle  all  through  the  war. 
"Old  Abe"  had  the  post  of  honor  at  the  center  of 
the  regiment,  his  perch  being  constructed  of  the 
American  shield,  and  he  was  carried  by  a  sergeant 
between  the  two  flags,  the  Stars  and  Stripes  and  the 
regimental  standard  of  blue  emblazoned  in  gold 
with  the  state  coat  of  arms.  All  the  brigade  adored 
him,  and  "secured"  chickens  for  him  —  he  was 
fonder  of  chickens  than  the  chaplain,  and  not  half 
so  particular  about  the  cookery.  To  see  him  dur 
ing  a  battle  fly  up  into  the  air  to  the  length  of  his 
long  tether,  hovering  above  the  flags  in  the  cloud 
of  smoke,  screaming  like  the  bird  which  bore  the 
67 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

thunderbolts  of  Jove,  was  to  raise  such  a  mighty 
shout  from  the  brigade  as  would  have  blown  Jeri 
cho  off  the  map.  Other  regiments  had  dogs,  bears, 
coons,  goats.  There  was  only  one  eagle  in  the 
army— "Old  Abe." 

He  was  an  eaglet  when  the  war  broke  out,  and 
enlisted  young,  like  many  of  the  boys  who  loved 
him  and  fought  beside  him.  He  was  captured  on 
the  Flambeau  River,  Wisconsin,  in  1861,  by  a  Chip- 
pewa  Indian,  "Chief  Sky,"  who  sold  him  for  a 
bushel  of  corn.  Subsequently  a  Mr.  Mills  paid  five 
dollars  for  him,  and  presented  him  to  "C"  Com 
pany  of  the  Eighth  Wisconsin  Regiment,  known 
as  the  "Eau  Claire  Eagles."  The  soldiers  at  once 
adopted  him  as  one  of  their  standards,  made  him  a 
member  of  the  color-guard,  named  him  in  honor  of 
the  greatest  of  the  presidents,  and  he  never  once 
disgraced  his  name.  Through  thirty-six  battles  he 
screamed  his  "Ha,  ha,"  among  the  trumpets,  smell 
ing  the  battle  afar  off,  fluttering  among  the  thun 
der  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting.  Never  once 
did  he  flinch.  He  was  wounded  in  the  assault  on 

68 


THE    FLAG 

Vicksburg  and  in  the  battle  of  Corinth.  At  this 
battle  it  is  said  that  a  reward  was  offered  by  the 
Confederate  General  Price  for  the  capture  or  kill 
ing  of  the  eagle,  "Pap"  declaring  that  he  would 
rather  capture  "Old  Abe"  than  a  whole  brigade. 

Sixteen  Thousand  Dollars  from  an  Eagle 

As  he  reenlisted  at  the  close  of  his  three  years' 
service  he  went  home  on  veteran  furlough  with  his 
comrades,  as  he  was  entitled  to  do.  When  he  said 
good-by  to  us  his  plumage  was  a  beautiful  dark 
brown  from  saber-curved  beak  to  yellow  shank. 
When  he  returned  after  sixty  days,  lo,  he  looked 
down  from  his  shield  in  the  ma j  esty  of  a  snow-white 
head  and  neck — more  beautiful  and  regal  than 
ever — the  change  that  comes  in  the  plumage  of 
Hallaetus  leucocephalus — that  was  his  family 
name — at  about  three  years  of  age.  At  the  close  of 
the  war  he  was  formally  presented  to  his  native 
state,  Governor  Lewis  receiving  him  in  the  name  of 
Wisconsin,  from  the  hands  of  his  comrades.  Dur 
ing  the  winter  of  1 864,  accompanied  by  a  guard  of 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TB 

honor,  he  attended  the  Sanitary  Fair  at  Chicago, 
where  the  sale  of  his  photographs,  unautographed, 
netted  the  sum  of  sixteen  thousand  dollars  for  the 
fund  for  sick  and  disabled  soldiers.  He  became  a 
great  traveler,  being  in  attendance  at  many  polit 
ical  conventions  and  soldiers'  reunions.  The  sculp 
tor,  Leonard  W.  Folk,  executed  a  model  of  him, 
which  has  been  used  in  replica  for  a  number  of 
public  monuments.  He  died  on  March  26,  1881, 
full  of  honors,  though  not  of  years,  for  he  came  of 
a  family  famous  for  longevity,  some  of  his  rela 
tives  living  beyond  the  age  of  one  hundred  years. 
But  his  vitality  was  seriously  impaired  from  the 
effects  of  smoke  inhaled  at  a  fire  which  occurred  in 
his  home,  the  state  capitol  in  Madison,  early  in  the 
year  of  his  death.  His  body  was  prepared  and 
mounted  by  a  skilled  taxidermist  and  occupied  a 
prominent  place  in  the  military  museum  in  the 
capitol  until  the  building  was  destroyed  by  a  sec 
ond  fire,  February  24,  1904.  "Old  Abe"  was  a 
living  standard,  nobler  than  any  effigy  in  bronze  or 
gold  ever  borne  above  the  legions  of  Rome  or 

70 


THE    FLAG 

among  the  victorious  eagles  of  Napoleon.  It  was 
fitting  that  his  body  should  pass  away  in  flames, 
even  as  the  stormy  years  of  his  youth  had  been 
lived  in  the  fierce  joy  that  challenges  death  amid 
the  fire  and  smoke  of  battle. 

Dear  "Old  Abe" !  I  think  of  him  every  time  I 
look  at  a  quarter.  His  portrait  makes  it  big  as  a 
dollar.  I  often  wish  all  my  creditors  had  belonged 
to  the  "Eagle  Brigade."  You  see,  patriotism  not 
only  makes  a  man's  country  seem  greater ;  it  makes 
her  coinage  appear  more  precious. 


VII 


COMRADES 

IT  HAS  been  many  changing  moons  since  I  at 
tended  a  reunion  of  the  Forty-seventh  Regiment  of 
Illinois  Infantry.  And  I  fear  I  may  never  attend 
another  one  until  the  Great  Assembly.  I  would 
dearly  love  to.  The  "old  boys"  grow  closer  to  my 
heart  with  every  passing  year.  I  was  lonesome  for 
a  long  time  after  the  last  reunion  at  which  I  fore 
gathered  with  them.  The  years  from  eighteen  to 
twenty-one  are  plastic  impression  plates  of  wax 
hardening  into  bronze  with  the  years. 

It  is  the  Cause  that  makes  Comrades.  Not  con 
geniality,  nor  personality.  Comrades  may  be  as 
antagonistic  in  personality  as  the  sons  of  Jacob. 
They  are  church  members,  club  members,  Repub 
licans,  Democrats,  Socialists,  Insurgents,  or  any 
other  human  beings  grouped  together  in  one  gen 
eral  class  for  high  and  earnest  purposes.  Brother- 

72 


COMRADES 

hood  covers  a  multitude  of  sins — not  wicked  sins, 
you  know,  but  disagreeable  sins,  which  are  worse 
because  they  are  so  much  more  numerous.  Know 
ing  who  the  dear  Lord  was,  the  society  to  which  He 
was  accustomed  in  heaven,  its  sweetness  and  purity, 
beauty  and  intelligence,  I  wonder  many  times  how 
He  could  endure  the  disciples  who  clustered  so 
closely  around  Him.  I  have  sat  in  a  boat  on  a 
warm  day  with  Galilean  fishermen  on  the  Sea  of 
Galilee.  And  they  were  no  sweeter  nor  any  cleaner 
two  thousand  years  ago  than  they  are  to-day.  I 
don't  think  our  blessed  Lord  "liked"  them  any  bet 
ter  than  I  did.  But,  then,  He  "loved"  them.  Which 
is  quite  different.  You  can't  force  yourself  to 
"like"  disagreeable  people.  But  you  can  love  them 
— dearly.  For  that  is  a  command.  And  it's  easy 
for  a  Christian  to  obey.  It  isn't  for  any  one  else ; 
no.  That's  one  of  the  tests  of  Christianity.  I 
rather  think  it  is  the  supreme  test. 

What  Is  a  Comrade? 

But  in  all  organizations  a  "comrade"  is  a  "com- 
73 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

rade."  That  is  the  only  definition.  The  diction 
aries  derive  the  word  from  the  Spanish  "camarada"; 
Italian,  "camera";  English,  "chamber";  French, 
"chambre" — "a  military  mess;  those  living  in  the 
same  chamber  or  tent;  an  intimate  association  in 
occupation  or  friendship."  But  the  meaning  of  a 
word,  if  it  be  a  living  word,  isn't  established  by  the 
dictionary.  It  grows,  like  a  man.  And  how  are 
you  going  to  define  a  man?  The  dictionary 
says  it  is  "an  individual  of  the  human  race."  "Spe 
cifically,  a  male  adult  of  the  human  race."  But 
that  no  more  defines  Ulysses  S.  Grant  or  Robert  E. 
Lee  than  "a  perennial  plant  which  grows  from  the 
ground  with  a  single  permanent  woody  self-sup 
porting  trunk"  defines  a  giant  sequoia  three  hun 
dred  feet  high,  thirty  feet  in  diameter,  and  seven 
thousand  years  old.  You  can't  define  "friend"  in 
dictionary  terms.  And  "comrade" — that  isn't  a 
name;  that's  a  man.  Tried  by  the  acid  test  like 
pure  gold,  tried  by  the  fire-test;  by  the  wet  fleece 
and  the  dry;  by  long  marches;  by  hunger  and 
thirst;  by  the  long  line  of  gleaming  bayonets;  by 
74 


COMRADES 

the  thunder  of  the  big  guns ;  by  the  fierce  reaping 
hooks  of  flame ;  by  pain  and  wounds ;  by  the  fierce 
grip  of  battle;  danger  and  death.  That's  what  a 
Grand  Army  man  or  a  Confederate  Veteran  means 
when  he  says  "comrade."  How  are  you  going  to 
put  all  that  into  a  dictionary  definition  ? 

In  the  gray  of  early  morning,  in  the  quiet  of 
noontide,  or  in  the  hour  of  the  heaviest  slumber, 
when  the  sky  was  the  blackest  velvet  and  the  stars 
were  whispering  "sleep,"  the  long  roll  broke  into  the 
silence  like  a  storm  of  challenges,  the  men  of  your 
own  company  sprang  into  line,  sent  the  cartridges 
home  with  swift  dull-thumping  strokes  of  the  ram 
rod,  and  with  sharp  clicks  of  the  hammers  adjusted 
the  caps  and  stood  at  attention,  ready  for  anything 
and  everything  that  might  happen.  You  felt  the 
light  touch  of  the  elbow  that  dressed  the  line.  A 
quick  glance  between  the  men  to  note  who  stood 
next  in  line;  a  half-turn  of  the  head  to  catch  the 
face  of  your  file-closer.  You  knew,  then,  that  the 
man  next  you  would  be  next  you  if  bayonet  lunge, 
screaming  shell  or  singing  Minie  bullet  found  you ; 
75 


[THE   DRUMS   OF   THE    47TH 

that  he  would  stop  to  pick  you  up  if  the  line  fell 
back,  though  the  price  of  his  stopping  might  be 
his  own  life ;  that  he  would  spring  to  catch  you  if 
he  saw  you  were  going  to  fall,  before  you  could  call 
to  him :  that  is  "comradeship." 

Yesterday  you  quarreled  with  him  over  some 
camp  game.  The  day  before,  on  camp  guard,  he 
dropped  his  musket  "a-port"  and  barred  your  secret 
entrance  through  the  lines,  when  detection  meant 
disgrace  and  punishment  for  you.  The  day  be 
fore  that,  when  you  were  on  "provost  duty,"  you 
found  him  howling  drunk  and  marched  him  to  the 
guard-house,  deaf  to  his  piteous  appeals  to  friend 
ship.  It  wasn't  many  days  ago  you  two  fought  in 
the  Company  street,  as  though  there  weren't  plenty 
of  chances  to  fight  your  common  enemies.  You 
never  did  like  each  other  very  well.  He  was  a 
"moss-back  Democrat"  and  you  were  a  "black  Re 
publican";  he  was  a  swearing,  fighting,  drinking 
scoffer,  and  you  were  a  sober  church  member. 

The  long  roll  ceases,  the  colonel's  "Forward, 
guide  center!"  preludes  the  explosive  "March!" 

76 


COMRADES 

and  this  man,  as  he  steps  out  with  you,  gives  your 
elbow  an  emphatic  little  touch  that  feels  like  a  pat 
on  the  shoulder.  Your  mother  wouldn't  risk  more 
for  you  that  day  than  he  will.  She  couldn't.  And 
you  know  it.  That's  "camaraderie."  Not  a  bois 
terous  story  or  a  rollicking  song  over  a  bottle  of 
wine  at  night.  But  a  sense  of  loyalty  that  lasts  all 
day ;  that  thrills  in  every  nerve  and  throbs  in  every 
heart-beat.  True  "comradeship"  claims  all  that  one 
man  has  to  give  for  another.  The  dear  "Friend 
that  sticketh  closer  than  a  brother,"  when  He  was 
giving  to  His  beloved  disciples  a  title  dearer  and 
truer  than  that  of  "brother,"  said,  "I  have  called 
you  friends" ;  "Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this, 
that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends." 
That's  comradeship.  That's  greater  than  brother 
hood. 

"The  brother,"  sadly  said  the  Teacher,  "shall 
betray  the  brother  to  death." 

Cain  and  Abel  were  brothers.  David  and  Jona 
than  were  comrades. 

"Blood  is  thicker  than  water,"  we  all  know. 
77 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

Then  there  must  be  something  thicker  and  warmer 
and  redder  than  blood.  A  love  truer  than  ties  of 
kinship.  A  love  that  can  do  more  than  group  a 
cluster  of  men  into  one  family,  or  bind  many  fam 
ilies  of  men  into  one  clan,  or  federate  a  score  of 
clans  into  one  nation.  A  love  so  pure  and  loyal, 
and  so  Christ-filled,  that  it  will  one  day  blend  the 
whole  world  of  men  into  one  great  throbbing  heart 
of  perfect  friendship.  Then  will  come  the  end  of 
wars. 

How  Comradeship  Was  Tested 

May  22,  1863,  General  Grant  had  made  his 
march  that  opened  the  Vicksburg  campaign,  clos 
ing  with  the  battles  at  Champion  Hills,  and  the 
crossing  of  the  Big  Black.  By  the  morning  of  the 
nineteenth  a  ribbon  of  blue,  stronger  than  a  web  of 
steel,  wound  among  the  hills  from  river  above  to 
river  below — Yazoo  to  Warrenton,  and  Vicksburg, 
like  Jericho  of  old,  was  "straitly  shut  up."  An  as 
sault  upon  the  formidable  works  had  been  made  on 
the  nineteenth  and  had  failed.  But  the  soldiers  were 

78 


COMRADES 

flushed  with  the  succession  of  victories  that  had 
measured  the  march  from  Grand  Gulf  to  the  Big 
Black,  and  were  not  at  all  disheartened  by  one  re 
verse.  They  "knew"  they  could  take  the  city  by 
assault — wanted  another  chance.  And  General 
Grant  knew  he  could  never  keep  an  army  in  sucli 
a  temper  patiently  in  the  ditches  through  the  long 
operations  of  a  siege,  unless  he  first  gave  them  their 
other  chance  and  let  them  find  out  for  themselves 
what  they  were  up  against  and  whom  they  were 
fighting.  By  the  twenty-second  all  his  troops  were 
up  and  the  second  assault  was  ordered.  You  know 
more  about  it  than  I  do,  because  you  have  read  its 
many  histories,  and  I  was  only  in  one  little  corner 
of  it,  very  small,  exceeding  hot,  and  extremely 
dangerous,  so  that  my  personal  observations,  being 
much  concerned  with  myself,  were  limited  by  dis 
tracting  circumstances. 

Anyhow,  without  much  regard  to  my  conveni 
ence,  the  assault  was  ordered  at  ten  o'clock  that 
beautiful  May  morning.     Ten  hours  of  the  most 
terrific  cannonading  I  ever  heard;  the  assailing 
79 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

army  storming  the  fortified  position  of  an  enemy 
almost  its  equal  in  numerical  strength,  when  one 
man  in  a  fort  is  considered  the  equivalent  of  seven 
assailants;  Sherman,  McClernand,  McPherson, 
Mower,  Quinby,  Tuttle,  Steele,  A.  J.  Smith  and 
Carr,  war-dogs  of  mettle  and  valor.  Hour  after 
hour  they  charged  the  great  bastioned  forts,  each! 
time  to  be  swept  back  with  ranks  thinned  and  scat 
tered,  but  ready  for  another  grapple.  At  half  past 
three  in  the  afternoon  the  brigade  to  which  my  regi 
ment  belonged — Mower's,  then  the  third  brigade  of 
Tuttle's  division,  Fifteenth  Army  Corps  (Sher 
man's) — was  ordered,  as  a  forlorn  hope,  to  storm 
the  bastion  at  Walnut  Hills.  We  charged  in  col 
umn,  and  as  we  swept  up  the  hill  from  the  shelter  of 
the  ravine,  we  passed  a  little  group  of  great  gen 
erals  watching  us  "go  in" — Sherman,  Tuttle  and 
Mower,  our  corps,  division  and  brigade  command 
ers.  Who  wouldn't  fight  before  such  a  "cloud  of 
witnesses"?  As  we  passed,  Mower  detached  him 
self  from  the  group  and  placed  himself  at  the  head 
of  his  own  men.  When  we  reached  the  crest  of  the 

80 


COMRADES 

hill  we  were  met  by  a  withering  fire  from  the  fort 
and  stockade  and  breastworks  that  struck  us  in  our 
faces  like  a  whirlwind  of  flame  and  iron.  We 
fought  through  it,  close  to  the  fort,  when  we  were 
finally  repelled.  Then  there  happened  to  me  that 
to  which  the  rest  of  the  day's  fighting  seemed  only 
preliminary. 

Bringing  Back  a  Lieutenant 

As  we  fell  slowly  back,  I  saw  our  second  lieu 
tenant,  Christopher  Gilbert,  stagger  and  fall  crook 
edly  forward.  I  thought  he  was  killed,  but  as  I 
looked  for  a  moment  I  noted  him  trying  to  rise. 
It  wouldn't  do  to  leave  him  there, — that  was  cer 
tain  death.  Robley  D.  Stout,  one  of  my  company, 
and  I  ran  to  him,  and  lifting  him  to  his  feet,  drew 
his  arms  over  our  shoulders,  and  brought  him  back 
to  the  retreating-line.  He  was  shot  through  the 
leg  with  a  grape-shot,  and  unable  to  help  himself 
more  than  to  cling  to  our  shoulders.  I  wished  at 
the  time  that  he 'were  as  big  as  a  bale  of  hay,  for 
his  body  made  a  sort  of  shield  for  the  two  youths 

81 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

who  were  carrying  him  away  from  the  missies  that 
still  pursued  him  spitefully  as  though  they  were 
bent  on  finishing  the  work  they  had  begun. 

He  recovered  after  a  tedious  time  in  hospital, 
and  when  he  could  return  to  duty  the  additional 
bar  he  won  at  Vicksburg  graced  his  shoulder-strap, 
and  he  was  our  first  lieutenant.  There  were  two 
Gilberts  in  the  company,  Chris  and  Charley,  broth 
ers,  good  boys  and  good  soldiers.  I  met  my  lieu 
tenant  a  few  times  after  the  war.  Then  our  lives 
drifted  apart.  I  became  a  minister  and  was  .pas 
tor  of  Temple  Baptist  Church  in  Los  Angeles,  Cal 
ifornia. 

And  one  day  my  lieutenant  came  before  me,  not 
to  give  orders,  but  to  take  them.  He  was  a  pris 
oner,  and  his  fair  captor  stood  beside  him.  She 
had  done  what  Pemberton's  sharpshooters  in  Vicks 
burg  could  not  do.  Love  had  won  my  lieutenant. 
I  ordered  him  to  accept  the  terms  of  the  bride,  to 
"love  her,  comfort  her,  cherish  her,  honor  and  keep 
her,  till  death  them  did  part."  And  he  obeyed 
willingly. 

82 


COMRADES 

After  the  service  he  said: 

"Bob,  do  you  recall  the  hot  afternoon  on  the 
slopes  before  the  bastion  at  Vicksburg?" 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  it,  Lieutenant.  And 
I  was  wondering  if  now  you  might  ever  blame 
me  for  helping  to  drag  you  out  of  the  range  of 
Pemberton's  sharpshooters  ?" 

"Indeed,  no,"  he  said,  "I  never  will.  I've  often 
wondered  why  the  dear  Lord  sent  you  back  after 
me.  But  this  is  the  'Why.'  " 

And  I  guess  it  is,  for  they  have  entered  into  the 
supreme  comradeship,  "wherefore  they  are  no  more 
twain,  but  one  flesh." 


VIII 

THE    TESTING   AT    THE    BROOK 

"THAT'S  a  fine  army,"  said  Gideon,  a  general  ap 
pointed  from  civil  life — what  our  West  Pointers 
call  "a  mustang,"  a  good  horse  with  no  pedigree, 
a  good  soldier  without  a  West  Point  diploma, — 
"that's  a  fine  army,"  looking  at  his  first  command, 
and  the  largest  he  had  ever  seen ;  "thirty-two  thou 
sand  able-bodied  men.  I  can  whip  Midian  off  the 
map  with  these  heroes." 

But  God,  who  had  seen  many  armies,  said  softly 
to  Himself,  not  to  hurt  the  general's  feelings,  "Not 
with  that  crowd  you  can't."  Then  He  commanded : 

"Send  home  all  your  cowards." 

And  the  general,  who  didn't  believe  there  was 
one  in  his  army,  forgetting  that  he  himself  "feared 
his  father's  household  and  the  men  of  the  city" 
when  he  half -disobeyed  an  order,  called  on  those 

84 


THE    TESTING    AT    THE    BROOK 

who  were  "fearful  and  afraid"  to  strike  for  home 
and  mother  when  they  were  ready.  To  his  amaze 
ment,  two-thirds  of  his  corps,  twenty-two  thousand 
men,  catching  sight  of  Midian  encamped  in  the 
valley,  made  an  early  start  from  Mount  Gilead 
before  a  bowstring  was  tightened,  and  got  home 
before  the  war  began.  And  Gideon  reviewed  his 
remaining  ten  thousand. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "this  is  as  big  an  army  as 
Barak  had  when  he  destroyed  the  hosts  of  Sisera. 
Much  may  be  accomplished  with  ten  thousand  se 
lected  men." 

But  God  said,  "A  phalanx  is  better  than  a  mob. 
Try  them  out  at  the  ford  of  the  brook,  and  keep 
all  who  really  want  to  fight." 

And  of  ten  thousand  soldiers  there  endured  the 
final  test  three  hundred  fighting  men, — men  so  hun 
gry  for  a  fight  and  so  eager  to  find  an  enemy  they 
forgot  they  were  thirsty  when,  with  parched  lips, 
lolling  tongues  and  panting  breath,  they  went 
splashing  through  a  desert  brook  on  their  way  to 
battle. 

85 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

Sweating  Down  to  Fighting  Weight 
So  from  that  day  to  this  every  army  has  had 
to  be  sweated  down  to  its  fighting  weight  by  sim 
ilar,  although  slower,  processes.  There's  a  lot  of 
useless  material  about  an  army;  about  as  useless 
as  noise  is  to  a  wagon.  And  yet  wherever  the 
wagon  goes  the  noise  goes.  Look  at  the  stuff  a 
church  gathers  about  itself  at  the  end  of  a  six 
weeks'  revival.  Wait  until  the  revival  is  six  months 
old,  and  the  church  has  been  fighting  sin  in  all  its 
subtle  forms  every  day  in  all  that  time.  Then  call 
the  roll  at  the  prayer-meeting.  And  yet  most 
heartily  do  I  believe  in  revivals.  But  the  great 
net  brings  to  shore  lots  of  fish  that  are  good  for 
nothing  but  to  cast  away.  And  of  all  things  that 
are  a  revolting  stench  on  dry  land,  a  worthless  fish 
is  a  little  the  loudest  and  worst. 

Of  the  army  of  Israel's  deliverance  only  three 
hundred  were  "Gideon's  men."  In  our  modern 
wars  much  the  same  thing  is  approximately  true. 
There  isn't  much  new  found  outside  of  the  old 
Bible,  is  there?  A  thousand  men  enlisted  in  a  reg- 

86 


THE    TESTING    AT    THE    BROOK 

iment  in  1861.  In  1862  the  regiment  counted  it 
self  strong  if  it  carried  three  hundred  bayonets 
into  battle.  These  three  hundred  constituted  its 
fighting  strength.  The  line  on  dress  parade  no 
more  represents  the  regiment  than  the  big  well- 
dressed  congregation  Sunday  morning  represents 
the  church.  All  the  skulkers  appear  on  dress  pa 
rade,  usually  in  the  smartest  uniforms — they  do 
nothing  to  soil  them — and  in  the  front  ranks.  The 
fighting  men  do  not  show  at  their  best  on  parade. 
Some  of  them  were  killed  in  the  last  fight.  Others 
are  in  hospital,  nursing  their  wounds  in  the  am 
bitious  hope  that  they  may  rejoin  the  regiment 
before  the  next  battle.  A  prayer-meeting  is  never 
so  showy  as  the  Sunday  morning  congregation. 

Considering  the  fact  that  the  world  has  been  at 
war  ever  since  there  were  three  men  in  it,  compar 
atively  very  few  military  organizations  have  left 
a  record  for  courage  of  the  highest  type, — what 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  called  "two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  courage":  courage  that  is  just  as  trust 
worthy,  clear  and  sane  in  a  sudden  emergency 
87 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

as  with  the  average  time  of  ample  preparation, 
knowing  at  once  what  to  do  and  fearlessly  ready 
to  do  it.  It  was  the  blare  of  the  trumpets  and 
the  glare  of  the  torches  at  midnight  that  defeated 
Midian,  before  ever  a  blow  had  been  struck  with 
the  sword.  Of  the  famous  troops,  one  thinks  at 
once  of  Gideon's  three  hundred;  David's  mighty 
men,  although  theirs  was  an  example  of  individual 
prowess,  rather  than  the  achievements  of  a  band; 
Leonidas  and  his  three  hundred  Spartans  at  Ther 
mopylae;  Napoleon's  "Old  Guard";  Cromwell's 
"Ironsides,"  of  whom  he  wrote,  "truly  they  were 
never  beaten" ;  the  six  hundred  at  Balaklava ;  Fred 
erick's  "Grenadiers";  and,  of  course,  the  regiment 
that  went  from  your  town  in  the  sixties.  I  should 
have  chronicled  that  one  first,  but  I  couldn't  think 
of  the  name.  The  fighting  "Onety-Onest,"  wasn't 
it?  It  was  "The  Fighting"  something,  I  know. 
That's  what  it  called  itself.  I  belonged  to  that 
regiment  myself. 

Were  there  no  cowards  in  any  of  these  famous 
organizations?     There  may  have  been  at  first,  but 
88 


THE    TESTING    AT    THE    BROOK 

they  were  sifted  out.  But  of  those  hard  fighters 
who  were  left,  were  there  none  who  were  at  times 
a  little  bit  frightened?  Was  there  ever  a  soldier 
who  was  never  "afraid"?  After  the  battle  of 
Kunersdorf,  Frederick  the  Great  was  as  nearly 
scared  to  death  as  any  man  could  be  and  not  die. 
Napoleon,  who  died  an  exiled  prisoner,  should  have 
fallen  at  Waterloo.  Maybe  he  couldn't.  Carlyle 
tells  of  Ney,  whom  the  emperor  called  "the  bravest 
of  the  brave,"  raging  through  that  fearful  carnival 
of  death  crying,  "Is  there  no  bullet  for  me?"  Cae 
sar,  Hannibal,  Napoleon,  Wellington,  Grant,  Lee, 
Sheridan,  Jackson, — did  these  great  captains 
never  feel  the  sense  of  fear?  Their  critics  will 
answer  "yes,"  their  admirers,  "no."  If  I  have  the 
casting  vote,  I  will  have  to  vote  with  the  "ayes." 
And  why?  Well,  because  they  were  men  before 
they  were  soldiers.  They  were  human  beings.  And 
if  I  may  judge  from  my  own  limited  and  narrow 
experience,  ranging  through  one  generation  and  all 
around  the  world,  I  have  never  met  more  than  a  half 
dozen  men  who  declared  they  had  never  felt  the 
89 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

sense  of  fear.     And  none  of  these  was  a  soldier, 
and  all  of  them  were  liars. 

And  another  reason  I  have  for  thinking  these 
great  captains  knew  what  it  was  to  be  afraid,  is 
that  they  were  splendid  soldiers  and  brave  men. 
And  no  man  reaches  the  highest  point  of  courage 
who  has  not  overcome  fear.  Fear — it  is  a  part  of 
our  humanity.  In  the  truest  story  of  the  race  that 
was  ever  written,  fear  is  named  before  love  or  hate : 
"I  heard  thy  voice  in  the  garden,  and  I  was  afraid." 
So  the  first  man  that  ever  lived  was  tormented  by 
fear.  And  Abraham  was  wounded  by  it.  And  Ja 
cob.  And  Moses.  And  David.  And  His  mightiest 
soldier,  Joab.  And  Peter,  the  bravest  of  the 
Twelve.  And  Paul,  the  great  apostle.  I  tell  you, 
man,  if  you  have  never  known  fear,  your  courage 
has  never  been  tested.  The  bravest  men  are  con 
verted  cowards. 

The  Sifting  Worse  Than  Fighting 

What   is   a   coward,   then?      The   sort   of   man 
who  is  disgraced  before  the  regiment  because  he 
90 


THE    TESTING    AT    THE    BROOK 

has  dishonored  the  colors, — whose  military  buttons 
are  cut  off,  whose  head  is  shaved,  and  who  is 
drummed  out  of  service  down  the  length  of  the 
line  on  parade  to  the  Rogue9 s  March?  What 
makes  him  a  coward? 

He  was  all  right  when  he  enlisted.  He  knew 
as  much,  which  is  to  say,  as  little,  about  war 
as  the  rest  of  us.  He  knew  that  a  soldier  was 
mighty  liable  to  get  shot.  He  counted  the  chances. 
He  was  a  patriotic  citizen.  He  loved  his  country 
well  enough  to  offer  and  to  risk  his  life  for  her. 
What  made  him  a  coward? 

Well,  the  sifting  process  is  something  terribly 
drastic.  It's  worse  than  fighting.  The  men  who 
failed  at  the  brook  test  could  have  gone  through 
the  battle  with  the  Midianites  all  right  could  they 
have  crossed  the  brook  in  the  right  spirit.  The 
awful  quiet  before  the  battle;  the  muffled  hum  of 
preparation;  nothing  to  do  but  form  and  wait, 
with  plenty  of  time  to  think  about  it.  And  the 
environment  does  not  suggest  pleasant  lines  of  con 
templation.  You  note  how  small  your  own  regi- 

91 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

ment  is — two  hundred  men.  But  you  picture  the 
Confederate  Eighth  Georgia,  right  in  your  front, 
with  nine  hundred  fighters.  Really  it  isn't  so  large 
as  your  own,  but  you  don't  know  that.  As  the 
battle  draws  nearer  and  closes  around  you,  a  score 
of  things  happen  to  "scare"  a  man,  even  though 
he  may  be  a  brave  soldier.  And  they  scare  the 
coward  a  great  deal  more. 

As  you  lie  on  the  ground  to  hide  the  position 
of  the  regiment  from  the  enemy  and  to  keep  under 
neath  the  searching  shell-fire  and  the  skirmish  shots 
that  get  past  your  skirmishers,  a  man  is  talking 
to  you,  with  his  face  turned  toward  your  own,  a 
foot  away.  You  are  listening  to  him  with  interest, 
because  he  is  asking  you  about  something  that  hap 
pened  in  your  own  town,  in  the  Lincoln  campaign. 
As  you  start  to  answer  him,  something  fearful  blots 
out  his  face  with  a  smear  of  blood,  and  he  is 
a  shuddering  thing  without  voice  or  breath  or  soul, 
huddled  there  at  your  side.  A  shell  has  burst  above 
your  company  and  a  piece  of  it  struck  that  man 
92 


THE    TESTING    AT    THE    BROOK 

in  the  face  like  an  angry  specter  that  resented  his 
question. 

Before  you  get  over  this,  as  you  look  along  the 
line  for  encouragement  in  the  faces  of  men  braver 
than  yourself,  your  eye  catches  the  glance  of  a 
soldier  four  or  five  files  away.  A  smile  plays  on 
his  lips  in  answer  to  your  glance,  which  he  rightly 
interprets.  Then  suddenly  his  face  whitens  like 
death.  He  lifts  his  head  a  little ;  his  open  mouth 
gasps  for  air — once — twice.  Then  he  lays  his  face 
back  on  the  grass  as  quietly  as  though  he  were 
going  to  sleep.  A  bullet  hissing  along  through 
the  grass  like  a  lead  serpent  had  just  found  his 
heart. 

And  This  Is  War 

Another  shell  bursts  over  you  with  a  sudden 
shriek  and  a  cloud  of  stinging  smoke  that  burns 
your  eyes,  and  half  a  dozen  ragged  fragments  hur 
tle  through  the  blue  dusk.  One  of  them  snaps 
like  a  mad  dog  at  the  foot  of  a  comrade,  tears 
93 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

and  shatters  the  tiny  bones  of  ankle  and  foot.  The 
man  screams  with  agony.  As  they  carry  him  away, 
he  troubles  the  air  with  his  cries,  for  he  knows  he 
is  a  cripple  for  life. 

The  regiment  rises  to  its  feet  and  begins  at  the 
command  "  'Ten-shun !  Commence  firing !"  The 
man  next  you  who  has  closed  up  that  first  hideous 
interval  is  vigorously  ramming  a  cartridge  down 
his  rifle.  He  says  to  you,  "What  shall  I  do?  This 
cartridge  is  jammed!"  "Spat!"  a  spiteful  Minie 
ball  interrupts  him,  as  it  crushes  the  elbow  of  the 
lifted  arm  with  a  sound  so  cruel  that  you  flinch 
with  the  other  man's  pain.  But  he — he  twists  his 
face  into  a  grimace  to  hide  his  hurt  and  answers 
his  own  question,  "I  won't  do  anything  with  it!" 
as  he  walks  back  to  the  rear,  a  one-armed  man 
forever. 

Sometimes  a  tragedy  has  a  ghastly  sense  of 
wonderment  that  is  near  to  grim  humor.  In  the 
assault  on  Vicksburg  I  saw  a  comrade  stoop  twice 
in  vain  efforts  to  pick  up  his  musket,  knocked  from 
his  grasp,  before  I  could  call  to  him  that  his  hand 
94 


THE    TESTING    AT    THE    BROOK 

was  gone.  A  bullet  had  cut  away  every  finger  on 
his  right  hand,  and  all  that  he  felt  was  a  painless 
sense  of  numbness.  My  face  must  have  showed 
what  I  thought,  for  an  older  soldier,  laughing  as 
he  capped  his  musket,  said: 

"That's  all  right,  Bobbie;  you're  liable  to  get 
killed  any  minute  and  never  know  a  thing  about  it !" 

That's  what  I  thought.  But  his  confirmation 
wasn't  half  so  reassuring  as  it  sounded. 

Then,  again,  as  the  regiment  stands  in  line  wait 
ing  for  the  "Forward"  that  will  send  it  like  a  whirl 
wind  upon  the  battery  in  its  front,  a  great  solid 
shot  with  a  devilish  shriek,  wasting  its  mighty  force 
on  a  life  that  a  tiny  rifle  bullet  could  destroy  as  com 
pletely,  smites  a  man  in  the  chest,  and  hurls  him 
twenty  feet  out  of  the  line,  tearing  him  to  pieces 
like  a  wild  beast. 

Now,  if  after  all  these  things  you  still  want 
to  fight,  if  you  shout  loud  and  long  and  exultantly 
as  you  spring  forward  to  follow  the  flag  when  it 
advances,  then  you  have  got  across  the  brook  with 
only  one  or  two  refreshing  laps  at  the  cool  water 
95 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

that  bubbled  in  alluring  crystals  around  your  knees. 
Now  you  can  be  trusted  with  trumpet  and  pitcher 
and  sword.  Now,  "faint,  yet  pursuing,"  you  will 
hang  on  the  trail  of  your  beaten  enemy  like  a  hound 
on  the  trail  of  the  wolf. 

But  the  hardest  fight  took  place  and  the  great 
victory  was  won  when  you  fought  with  yourself 
as  you  splashed  through  the  brook  with  your  head 
in  the  air. 


IX 


THE    COWARD 

WHY  does  the  coward  go  to  war? 

It  is  the  most  dangerous  occupation  in  the  world. 
It  offers  the  greatest  discouragements  and  the 
smallest  rewards  for  cowardice.  It  most  emphat 
ically  professes  for  timidity  only  unmeasured  con 
tempt.  It  is  the  calling  for  which  the  coward  is 
most  unfitted  by  temperament  and  inclination. 

Why,  then,  does  the  coward  even  start  to  war? 

For  certainly  he  does  start,  in  every  war  that 
is  declared.  He  is  found  in  every  army.  He  goes 
to  war  voluntarily,  many  times  eagerly,  for  the 
cowardly  temperament  is  volatile.  A  rabbit  is 
sprightlier  than  a  bulldog.  The  coward  may  start 
to  war  with  the  valor  born  of  ignorance.  When 
I  enlisted,  I  had  but  one  well-defined  fear.  I  was 
afraid  the  war  would  be  over  before  I  got  into  a 
97 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

battle.  Every  time  I  got  hold  of  a  newspaper  or 
news  reached  the  camp  by  courier,  my  heart  sank 
with  the  disloyal  dread  that  that  old  Grant — all 
generals  are  "old"  to  the  soldier — had  utterly 
crushed  the  enemy  with  one  terrible  blow,  and  I 
would  have  to  go  home  without  one  battle  story.  It 
was  terrible.  However,  it  didn't  happen.  Though 
many  a  time  afterward  I  wished  that  it  had.  I  got 
into  my  battle.  After  that  a  second  fear  displaced 
the  first.  I  was  afraid  the  war  would  be  ended 
before  I  got  into  another.  And  again  my  fear  was 
an  illusion.  The  war  kept  on  until  I  got  into  a 
score  of  fights.  And  then,  seeing  perhaps  that  7 
was  never  going  to  quit  first,  the  hosts  of  the  Con 
federacy  agreed  to  stop  if  I  would.  At  least  that 
is  the  way  it  appeared  to  me.  And  it  seemed  to  be 
an  honorable  termination  of  the  prolonged  and  ob 
stinate  struggle.  Up  to  1865  I  had  killed  as  many 
of  them  as  they  had  of  me,  so  that  honor  was  satis 
fied.  And  you  couldn't  tell  what  might  happen. 
At  the  next  grim  roll-call  of  artillery  and  musketry, 
they  might  get  the  delegates  and  have  a  majority 

98 


THE    COWARD 

of  one  over  me.     Not  much  of  a  majority,  but  it 
would  be  as  good  as  unanimous. 

The  Business  of  Fighting 

There  is  more  "thrill"  in  the  first  battle  than  in 
any  of  the  subsequent  ones.  You  may  go  through 
harder  battles  than  the  first ;  longer,  fiercer,  more 
savagely  contested,  bloodier  in  every  way.  But  no 
soldier  will  ever  forget  item  or  incident  in  his  bap 
tism  of  fire  and  blood.  He  fought  like  a  patriot. 
He  never  forgot  the  high  and  holy  cause  in  which 
he  was  a  soldier.  He  looked  at  the  flag  with  his 
soul  in  his  eyes.  He  cared  no  more  for  his  own  life 
than  he  did  for  the  grass  under  foot.  Older  and 
braver  soldiers  than  himself  reproved  his  reckless 
ness.  He  was  daring  without  cause.  He  stood  up 
like  a  man,  aimed  deliberately  into  the  smoke  that 
concealed  the  hostile  line,  and  hit  a  tree-top.  A 
man  isn't  afraid  in  his  first  battle.  He  is  excited; 
thrilled,  his  nerves  are  on  a  tension  like  harp- 
strings;  his  senses  are  abnormally  alert;  he  sees 
everything;  hears  everything. 

99 


THE    DRUMS    DF    THE    47TH 

In  all  the  others  he  fights  like  a  soldier.  He 
takes  sensible  care  of  himself.  He  may  fire  many 
times  without  seeing  a  man.  But  every  time  he 
shoots  into  a  place  where  he  knows  there  are  men. 
He  fights  a  little  better  every  time  he  goes  into  a 
new  battle.  A  certain  commonplaceness  of  war  in 
fects  him.  He's  where  his  business  calls  him.  He 
chatters  about  all  sorts  of  things,  because  his  nerves 
are  tuned  up  to  concert  pitch ;  but  he  isn't  nervous. 
He  discusses  with  his  comrades  the  merits  of  the 
campaign  of  which  that  battle  is  the  key-note.  They 
dispute  about  the  weight  of  the  guns  that  are 
shielding  them;  they  distinguish  between  "rifle" 
and  "smooth  bore."  They  listen  to  a  report — 
sharp  and  clear — that  splits  the  battle  clamor  like 
a  new  voice  and  say,  "That's  a  Rodman" ;  and  they 
hear  a  great  boom,  loud  and  heavy,  and  say,  "That's 
a  bronze  Napoleon."  Thus  they  introduce  the  re 
cruits  to  the  machines  that  are  trying  to  kill  them. 
They  draw  cuts  with  blades  of  grass  to  see  who 
shall  take  the  canteens  and  hunt  for  water.  And 
when  the  unlucky  one  returns  and  some  foolish  one 
100 


THE    COWARD 


asks,  "Where  did  you  get  the  water,  Bill?"  there 
is  a  roar  of  laughter  when  Bill  replies,  "Don't  ask 
me  till  you've  had  your  drink."  They  imitate  the 
whining  of  a  bullet  that  comes  unpleasantly  close, 
and  echo  the  shriek  and  howl  of  the  shell.  Some  of 
the  men  are  such  artists  in  this  mimicry  that  their 
efforts  are  encored.  They  reply  to  the  shell  that 
comes  along  with  its  "whoo-whoo"  with  innocent 
answers — "WTho?  Cloyd  Bryner?  That's  him — 
four  files  down  the  line."  "Who,  me?  I'm  not 
here.  I'm  back  in  Illinois.  Ain't  never  been  out  of 
the  state."  They  chaff  one  another's  personal  pe 
culiarities  to  the  verge  of  a  quarrel.  They  act  like 
the  bleachers  at  a  baseball  game,  or  football  play 
ers  between  the  halves.  That's  their  business — 
fighting. 

If  you  can  get  the  coward  safely  into  that,  he'll 
stay  and  he'll  fight.  As  a  rule  he  fails  in  the  pre 
liminaries.  But  sometimes  he  gets  so  nearly  across 
the  brook  that  he  has  only  one  foot  in  the  water — 
and  then  he  lies  down  for  a  drink. 

I  remember  a  coward  whom  I  knew  in  the  army. 
101 


:rrit:e;  DRUMS  OF  THE  47TH 

A  good  coward.  In  all  other  respects,  a  good  sol 
dier.  A  pleasant-looking  man,  with  a  weak  chin, 
hidden  by  his  long  beard.  Blue  eyes,  kindly  as  a 

woman's !     A  manly  voice ;  an  intelligent  mind.     A 

i 

cheery   comrade;   rather   quiet.      Never   shirked  a 

duty  in  camp  or  on  the  march.  Neat  in  his  dress ; 
excellent  in  drill.  Gun  and  accouterments  always 
bright  and  clean.  In  scant-ration  times,  always 
ready  to  divide  what  was  left  in  his  haversack  or 
canteen,  taking  the  smaller  portion  himself.  Vigi 
lant  on  camp-guard,  though  I  soon  observed  that  he 
was  never  detailed  for  picket  duty,  where  a  man 
may  have  to  stand  vedette — away  out  by  himself, 
with  his  own  responsibilities — a  very  lonely  post  of 
the  highest  importance. 

This  man  was  a  coward. 

He  knew  it.  He  was  ashamed  of  it.  He  tried  to 
overcome  his  cowardice.  The  regiment  never  went 
into  battle  that  he  didn't  start  in  with  his  company. 
If  his  number  brought  him  into  the  front  rank, 
there  he  stood.  He  rammed  down  his  cartridge 
with  a  look  of  resolution  on  that  uncertain  mouth, 


THE    COWARD 

and  he  "fixed  bayonets"  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
is  going  to  reach  somebody  with  it,  in  spite  of  the 
modern  military  axiom  that  "bayonets  never  cross." 
He  lifted  the  hammer  twice  or  thrice  to  be  certain 
that  the  cap  was  good  and  fast  on  the  nipple.  He 
tightened  his  belt  a  hole  or  two,  as  a  man  who  knows 
there  is  going  to  be  hot  work  and  no  dinner-hour. 
He  shook  his  canteen  at  his  ear  to  be  sure  there  was 
a  good  supply  in  case  he  was  wounded.  He  made 
all  the  preparations  of  an  experienced,  "first-class 
fighting  man"  who  intended  to  volunteer  when  a 
forlorn  hope  was  called  for  some  desperate  duty, 
on  which  only  picked  men  would  be  taken. 

What  Happened  Under  Fire 

And  his  comrades  stood  by  him  and  helped  him, 
for  his  reputation  was  known,  his  weakness  and  his 
good  points.  A  sergeant  fixed  one  eye  exclusively 
on  him.  His  nearest  comrade  touched  elbows  with 
a  little  ejaculation  to  "play  the  man."  The  cap 
tain  paused  behind  him  as  he  walked  down  the  line 
and  whispered  to  him.  The  lieutenant  caught  his 
103 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

eye  and  nodded  encouragement.  Unconsciously  we 
all  seemed  to  be  leaning  a  little  closer  to  him.  Then 
the  order  translated  the  bugle  with  a  shout,  the  flag 
fluttered  and  the  line  moved  forward;  a  rain  of 
shots  told  that  our  skirmishers  had  found  them,  and 
just  as  we  were  ready  to  dash  forward  like  dogs  of 

war  the  man  nearest  the  coward  stopped,  choked, 

i 

coughed  up  a  stream  of  blood  and  fell  sidewise. 

And  the  coward  ran  away. 

Broke  from  his  file-closer  who  tried  to  stop  him ; 
tore  loose  from  the  corporal  who  clutched  his  arm; 
threw  down  his  gun;  dodged  the  sergeant  who 
lunged  fiercely  at  him  with  his  bayonet ;  out-stepped 
the  lieutenant  who  ran  after  him;  ignored  the 
wrathful  shout  and  threatening  revolver  of  the 
colonel,  and  was  safely  gone.  That  was  as  far  as 
ever  we  could  see  him.  Back  to  the  rear  he  raced. 
Past  the  supporting  lines;  back  into  the  ruck  and 
rabble  of  other  cowards  and  the  demoralized  horde 
of  camp-followers  that  make  the  rear  of  the  fight 
ing  line  a  pandemonium  of  fear  and  misrule  and 
104 


THE    COWARD 

confusion,  despite  the  good  soldiers  held  there  on 
duty.  He  ran  away. 

Sometimes  shame  kept  him  away  from  the  regi 
ment  for  a  day  or  two,  or  even  three.  But  he  al 
ways  came  back  with  a  wild  excuse  for  his  disap 
pearance  which  we  all  knew,  himself  included,  was 
a  foolish  lie,  and  resumed  his  duties. 

In  the  first  instance  he  suffered  for  it.  The  regi 
ment  resented  it.  His  company  felt  disgraced.  But 
insensibly  our  attitude  toward  him  changed.  Cow 
ardice  is  one  of  the  most  serious  offenses  in  the 
army.  It  is  punishable  by  extreme  measures — even 
death.  I  have  seen  men  "drummed  out"  of  the 
service  for  it.  But  no  charges  were  ever  brought 
against  this  man.  He  was  never  punished.  And 
being  a  young  soldier  when  I  joined  the  regiment, 
I  used  to  wonder  why.  And  often  I  wonder  about 
him  in  these  quiet  days  when  a  saluting  cannon  on 
some  day  of  parade  sets  my  heart  beating  for  a 
moment  with  quickened  throbs  as  I  half  listen  for 
the  exploding  shell  to  follow.  No  man  who  ever 
105 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

had  a  loaded  gun  fired  right  at  him  ever  again 
hears  rifle  or  cannon-shot  with  the  same  indifference 
that  the  civilian  feels  and  shows.  It  is  exactly  the 
difference  in  the  looks  and  feeling  of  the  man  who 
loves  to  read  and  the  man  who  can't  read  a  word, 
as  they  walk  past  the  shelves  of  a  library. 

Was  He  a  Failure? 

But  whereas  in  the  fierce  old  days  I  wondered  why 
the  colonel  didn't  court-martial  the  coward  for  run 
ning  away,  I  now  wonder  if  the  man  was  a  coward, 
after  all! 

For  the  cowards  all  ran  away  before  the  battle, 
when  they  didn't  have  to  run.  They  went  back 
from  Mount  Gilead  as  soon  as  they  saw  the  enemy. 
They  stayed  away.  They  played  sick  the  day  be 
fore.  They  fell  out  of  the  marching  ranks  when 
we  began  to  double  quick.  They  stopped  at  the 
fence  when  the  regiment  suddenly  deployed  into 
line  to  tie  up  a  shoe  that  was  already  so  knotted 
they  couldn't  untie  it.  They  got  details  in  the  hos 
pitals  in  St.  Louis  and  Cincinnati  and  other  north- 
106 


THE    COWARD 

ern  cities  months  before.  There  were  scores  of 
ways  of  keeping  out  of  a  battle  without  actually 
suffering  the  charge  of  cowardice.  And  some  there 
were  who  ran  away  on  the  way  in,  who  got  so  far 
across  the  brook  they  could  hear  the  distant  bat 
teries  and  the  nearer  skirmishers. 

But  this  man  went  in  every  time.  With  what  beat 
ing  of  heart,  and  straining  of  nerves,  shortness  of 
breath,  and  strenuous  calling  up  of  all  the  reserves 
of  resolution  and  will-power,  God  knew,  and  the 
colonel  half  guessed.  A  braver  man,  up  to  that 
point,  than  any  of  the  rest  of  us.  He  started  in, 
and  he  would  have  stayed  through  but  for  that 
awful  smear  and  sickening  smell  of  hot  blood.  If 
we  could  have  held  him  past  that,  either  he  would 
have  won  his  chevrons  or  died  of  heart  sickness. 
Somehow  I  think  if  the  coward,  when  he  went  to 
enlist,  could  have  got  a  message  through  to  the  dear 
Lord,  and  had  waited  for  the  answer,  and  could 
have  understood  it,  he  would  have  been  told  that 
"they  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait."  God 
never  intended  that  man  should  kill  anybody.  I 
107 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

have  known  other  men  since  those  days,  calm-na- 
tured,  fearless,  who  can  not  abide  the  sight  of  a 
tiny  splotch  of  blood.  They  faint,  as  they  look,  as 
though  the  surgeon's  steel  that  drew  the  crimson 
drops  had  pierced  the  patient's  heart. 

The  coward  served  through  the  war,  and  when 
the  regiment  marched  home  to  welcome  and  honors, 
I  think  one  of  the  bravest  men  that  went  with 
them  was  the  coward.  I  know  he  was  beaten  in 
every  fight  he  went  into,  but  he  went  in.  And  he 
fought.  And  such  fighting !  Much  we  knew  about 
it,  we  laughing,  shouting,  devil-may-care  schoolboys 
playing  with  firearms ! 

What  is  a  coward,  anyhow?  Cravens,  and  das 
tards,  and  poltroons,  we  know  at  sight.  But  who 
are  the  cowards  ?  And  how  do  we  distinguish  them 
from  the  heroes?  How  does  God  tell? 


X 

THE    SCHOOL    OF    THE    SOLDIER 

IN  THE  old  Hardce  tactics  the  "School  of  the 
Soldier"  is  the  title  of  that  chapter  which  pertains 
to  the  instruction  of  the  individual  soldier  in  the 
things  which  he  can  do  by  himself — the  manual  of 
arms,  for  example,  which  he  can  study  and  per 
form  in  solitude  as  well  as  in  the  company  of  the 
regiment,  with  the  excepting  of  "stacking  arms," 
which  no  soldier  can  do  with  one  musket.  And  the 
facings — right  and  left  and  about,  and  things  of 
that  sort.  After  he  has  passed  his  finals  in  this 
school  there  comes  the  "School  of  the  Company," 
and  of  the  battalion  and  other  larger  movements 
and  evolutions.  He  must  have  his  entire  company 
to  assist  him  to  form  fours  or  march  by  the  right 
or  left  flank  as  the  case  may  be  with  or  without 
doubling.  He  can  not  deploy  as  a  skirmisher  with 
out  at  least  a  platoon  to  cooperate,  nor  can  he 
109 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

"rally  by  fours"  without  a  minimum  support  of 
three  other  warriors,  nor  "rally  by  squad"  without 
comrades  to  the  extent  of  a  group.  And  when  he 
advances  in  the  broader  knowledge  of  battalion  in 
struction  he  learns  how  impossible  it  is  for  one  man 
to  form  a  square,  with  officers  in  the  center. 

There  are  some  things,  you  see,  that  a  man  can 
do  by  himself.  He  can  learn  to  handle  his  rifle; 
stand  sentry ;  go  on  certain  phases  of  fatigue  duty, 
chopping  wood  or  policing  the  color-line — oh,  lots 
of  things  a  man  can  do  by  himself.  Guard  his 
heart  and  keep  his  lips ;  brush  his  teeth  and  control 
his  thoughts.  All  these  things  pertain  to  the  man. 
In  the  army  and  in  the  church  and  in  business,  cer 
tain  things  belong  to  the  "school  of  the  soldier." 
But  in  the  large  things  of  life,  you  have  to  work 
with  human  cooperation.  All  sorts  of  humans, 
too.  Some  of  these  things — maybe,  I  am  not  sure 
of  that — pertain  exclusively  to  the  army  and  mili 
tary  education.  Most  of  them,  perhaps  all  of  them, 
are  useful  in  every  calling.  Some  of  these  things 
we  are  taught  by  our  officers. 
110 


THE    SCHOOL    OF    THE    SOLDIER 

Not  Taught  ~by  the  Officers 

The  president  of  our  division,  our  general, 
taught  us  in  great  masses  and  large  movements 
which  we  did  not  understand,  but  which  we  knew 
he  did,  and  that  sufficed  us.  As  for  personal  in 
struction,  almost  any  good  soldier  in  the  ranks 
could  have  corrected  the  general  in  his  manual  of 
arms.  He  taught  the  "larger  good." 

The  colonel  came  a  little  closer  to  us,  in  the  regi 
mental  drill.  We  learned  the  reasons  for  his  move 
ments  and  responded  to  his  commands  with  spring 
ing  alacrity  because  his  eye  was  upon  every  man 
in  the  line.  The  captain  was  a  rigid  catechist, 
knowing  each  one  of  us,  his  catechumens,  and  teach 
ing  us  with  the  keenness  of  a  martinet  the  things 
that  pertained  to  our  personal  military  salvation. 
But  closest  of  all,  the  old-fashioned  sergeant  stood 
only  a  ramrod  length  away  from  the  individual, 
with  an  eye  for  dust  and  spots  like  a  hawk  for  prey. 
His  was  the  "bark"  with  a  bite  behind  it  that 
straightened  the  slouching  shoulders  and  brought 
the  wandering  little  finger  back  to  the  seam  of 
111 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  pantaloons.  His  the  mechanic's  glance  which 
"dressed"  the  company  line  till  it  answered  the 
'geometrical  insistence  of  the  shortest  distance  be 
tween  two  points.  His  the  sarcastic  taunt  which 
adjusted  the  awkward  feet  until  the  heels  clicked 
together  and  the  toes  pointed  at  the  required  angle. 
The  sergeant  was  the  man  who  "licked  into  shape'* 
the  shuffling  recruit  and  made  a  soldier  of  the  cub 
of  the  awkward  squad. 

In  the  church  the  pastor  is  the  general,  the  su 
perintendent  is  the  colonel  and  the  Sunday-school 
teacher  is  the  sergeant. 

The  colonel  taught  us  things  the  general  had  no 
time  for.  The  captain  taught  us  some  things  the 
colonel  couldn't.  The  sergeant  taught  us  nearly 
everything  the  higher  teachers  left  out. 

Then  there  was  the  best  teacher  of  them  all — the 
pedagogic  martinet  without  warrant  or  commission, 
chevrons  or  shoulder-straps;  the  old-fashioned 
birch-rod  teacher  who  taught  by  main  strength, 
precept  and  example — the  private  gentleman  of  the 
line.  He  never  assumed  to  give  instruction  to  the 


THE    SCHOOL    OF    THE    SOLDIER 

company  or  battalion.  But  as  an  unassigned  in 
structor  in  the  "school  of  the  soldier,"  the  private 
taught  his  fellows  their  lessons  without  opening 
the  book,  and  graduated  every  pupil  cum  laude. 
There's  a  heap  of  things  you  learn  in  the  army— 
and  in  civil  life — that  are  not  in  the  book,  and  no 
body  can  teach  them  so  well  as  the  other  soldier. 

Send  the  boy  to  kindergarten  at  four  years.  At 
six  he  goes  into  the  primary.  Ten  finds  him  in  the 
intermediate.  Fourteen  sees  him  in  the  grammar- 
school.  At  eighteen  he  is  graduated  from  the  high- 
school,  and  at  twenty-two  he  comes  out  of  college 
and  passes  a  few  years  in  the  university.  Then  a 
couple  of  years  in  Europe,  and  at  last  his  educa 
tion  is  complete  as  far  as  the  schools  are  concerned. 
So  much  for  the  books.  But,  oh,  the  things  he 
learned  from  the  other  boys !  The  unwritten  things 
— these  form  the  important  part  of  his  education. 

It  was  the  private  soldier  who  taught  me  not  to 

step  on  the  heels  of  my  file-closer.    He  also  taught 

me  how  to  make  a  feather  bed  of  two  oak  rails. 

How  to  grind  coffee  in  a  tin  cup  with  the  shank 

113 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

of  a  bayonet.  How  to  boil  roasting-ears  in  their 
own  husks  in  the  ashes.  How  to  drink  boiling  cof 
fee  without  blistering  my  throat.  How  to  conceal 
my  person  behind  a  sapling  not  half  so  thick  as  my 
body.  How  to  fill  my  canteen  from  a  warm  pond 
and  let  the  water  cool  in  the  sun  on  a  hot  day. 
How  to  march  eighteen  or  twenty  miles  over  rough 
roads  day  after  day  without  getting  an  ache  in  my 
feet.  How  to  make  one  day's  rations  last  three  days 
without  going  hungry.  How  to  get  a  refreshing 
drink  of  water  without  swallowing  a  drop.  How  to 
lift  a  nervous  hen  from  the  bosom  of  her  family 
without  any  outcry  from  herself  or  relatives.  How 
to  fool  the  sergeant  on  roll-call — once.  That  trick 
was  like  a  limited  ticket,  good  "for  this  day  and 
train  only."  How  to  "explain  things"  to  the  cap 
tain.  How  to  launder  one's  linen,  which  was  woven 
of  the  coarsest  flannel,  in  cold  water.  How  to  make 
one's  self  clean  when  it  was  muddy,  and  how  to  look 
fresh  when  it  was  dusty.  How  to  divide  the  last 
pint  of  water  in  your  canteen  so  as  to  get  a  drink 
and  a  sponge  bath  and  have  enough  left  for  coffee. 


THE    SCHOOL    OF    THE    SOLDIER 

How  to  make  two  months'  pay — twenty-six  dollars 
— last  till  next  pay-day,  two  or  three  months  away, 
after  you  had  sent  half  of  it  home  and  spent  half 
the  remainder.  How  to  keep  awake  on  picket  all 
night  when  your  dry  eyes  ached  and  burned  for 
sleep.  How  to  sleep  like  a  tired  working  man  under 
the  guns  of  a  battery  shelling  the  enemy's  lines. 
How  to  light  a  fire  in  the  woods  with  wet  twigs  in  a 
pelting  rain  and  a  fretful  wind  with  your  last 
match. 

When  the  general,  colonel,  captain  and  sergeant 
have  done  their  best  for  you,  you  turn  to  an  old 
private  soldier  in  your  own  company  and  say : 

"I  have  been  graduated  in  the  school  of  the  sol 
dier  and  have  a  diploma  signed  by  four  able  in 
structors." 

The  Orderly  and  the  A.  D.  C. 

And  the  private  says: 

"Very  good,  my  son.     You  have  been  a  diligent 
pupil.     Now  come  to  my  high  school  and  I'll  teach! 
you  something  worth  knowing." 
115 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

Oh,  you  do  learn  something  from  what  you  read ! 
"Reading  maketh  a  full  man."  And  you  learn  a 
little  more  from  what  you  see  and  hear.  But  you 
take  honors  in  the  things  you  do.  It's  a  mighty 
good  thing  to  "know  these  things,"  but  "blessed 
are  you  if  you  do  them."  For  then  you  will  know 
how  to  do  them  right,  and  you'll  never  forget 
them. 

Once  upon  a  day  there  came  to  our  regiment,  on 
the  march,  a  staff  officer  splashing  along  the  rain- 
soaked  road,  trailed  by  an  orderly,  who  looked  twice 
as  important  and  rode  much  better  than  the  officer. 
The  aide-de-camp  checked  his  galloping  steed  in 
front  of  Colonel  Cromwell,  showering  the  regi 
mental  staff  with  yellow  mud  and  water  as  he  sa 
luted.  The  orderly  halted  quite  as  abruptly,  but 
did  it  much  better,  splashing  no  one.  Because  he 
had  been  trained  in  the  school  of  equality,  which 
has  been  the  training-school  for  humble  folk  and 
plain  people  in  all  ages.  He  also  used  to  splash 
the  infantry  colonel  when  he  rode  up  in  mad  haste. 

That  is,  once  he  did. 

116 


THE    SCHOOL    OF    THE    SOLDIER 

And  he  was  also  wont  to  halt  before  a  platoon 
of  cavalry  with  the  effect  of  a  mud  volcano  in  active 
eruption. 

That  is,  he  was  wont  to,  once. 

And  also,  he  was  once  accustomed  to  ride  splash- 
fully  along  the  line  of  a  marching  regiment  of  in 
fantry,  impartially  distributing  emulsions  of  mud 
and  water  as  the  churning  hoofs  of  his  charger 
might  direct. 

That  is,  once  upon  a  time  he  did.  The  next  time 
he  didn't. 

That  is  one  of  the  excellencies  of  the  educational 
processes  of  the  public  schools.  And  the  army  is 
a  public  finishing  school.  The  officer,  like  the  son 
of  a  millionaire  in  a  private  school  for  young  gen 
tlemen,  can  take  many  liberties  and  do  many  imper 
tinent  things.  The  private  soldier,  being  promptly 
admonished  by  his  comrades  on  his  first  offense, 
which  is  considered  as  heinous  as  his  last,  usually 
makes  it  his  last.  He  may  offend  in  other  ways,  for 
there  are  a  thousand  ways  of  being  mean.  But 
rarely,  if  he  is  a  good  soldier,  which  means  if  he 
117 


!THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

has  common  sense  to  begin  with,  does  he  repeat  his 
first  crime. 

Where  the  Training1  of  Adversity  Wins  Out 

Wherefore  on  this  occasion,  the  orderly,  having 
aforetime  been  bombarded  by  infantrymen  of  his 
own  rank,  and  slammed  by  cavalrymen  of  his  own 
grade,  remembering  that  it  was  just  as  easy  and 
far  more  acceptable  to  the  audience  to  splash  the 
bank  of  the  road  as  the  faces  of  his  comrades,  did 
so.  And  was  loftily  and  sternly  insensible  to  the 
sarcastic  eulogiums  upon  his  skill  and  tact,  uttered 
in  loud  tones  by  the  soldiers  web-footing  along  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

Thus  may  we  see  how  sweet  are  the  uses  of  ad 
versity  and  the  lessons  of  poverty.  The  man  who 
learns  to  bear  the  yoke  in  his  youth  doesn't  mind 
the  callosities  in  his  age.  Nobody  so  wisely  in 
structs  us  in  the  practical  ways  of  life  as  our 
equals.  I  learned  a  hundred  things,  more  or  less 
useful,  from  my  comrades  of  the  rank  and  file  that 
118 


,THE    SCHOOL    OF    THE    SOLDIER 

my  colonel  never  taught  me.  Indeed,  some  of  these 
accomplishments  he  sternly  and  faithfully  admon 
ished  me  to  forget. 

Meanwhile  the  untaught  aide-de-camp  has  sa 
luted  and  galloped  away  in  showers  of  mud,  fol 
lowed,  at  safe  and  dry  distance,  by  the  orderly, 
who  rode  well  and  wore  the  bearing  of  a  division 
commander,  piling  it  on  a  little  bit  high,  perhaps, 
because  he  was  aware  that  his  immediate  superior 
rode  very  badly,  his  awkwardness  being  emphasized 
by  the  floundering  of  a  gaitless  horse.  The  orderly, 
who  was  a  chambermaid  in  a  livery  stable  when  he 
enlisted,  had  gone  to  the  corral  when  the  new  horses 
came  in  and  picked  out  his  own  from  a  couple  of 
hundred.  But  the  aide-de-camp,  who  was  a  book 
keeper  in  a  shoestore  when  the  war  broke  out,  had 
sent  his  colored  servant  to  select  a  horse  for  him. 
The  negro  man,  before  that  he  was  a  freedman,  had 
been  a  plowboy  on  a  Mississippi  plantation,  and 
his  idea  of  a  good  horse  was  a  brute  with  bunchy 
knees,  big  hoofs  and  tremendous  quarters.  And 
119 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

that  was  the  style  the  aide-de-camp  got.  Hence 
the  contrast  between  the  riding  of  the  A.  D.  C.  and 
the  orderly. 

Oh,  you  go  to  school  to  learn  to  read  and  you  go 
to  college  to  "increase  learning" ;  you  pore  over 
the  endless  output  of  books  to  enrich  your  mind, 
and  you  burn  the  midnight  oil  in  the  "much  study 
that  is  a  weariness  of  the  flesh."  And  all  this  time 
"Wisdom" — who  is  quite  a  different  thing  from 
books  and  lectures — "Wisdom  crieth  aloud  in  the 
street;  she  uttereth  her  voice  in  the  broad  places; 
she  crieth  in  the  chief  place  of  concourse;  at  the 
entrance  of  the  gates" ;  in  the  ranks  of  the  private 
soldiers;  in  the  crowds  of  the  common  people — 
where  there  is  dust,  and  care,  and  toil,  and  poverty ; 
pain  and  heartache;  fighting  and  dying.  That's 
where  you  find  "Wisdom." 


XI 


GOOD  FIGHTING  ON  POOR  FOOD 

Two  fierce  October  days  we  fought  with  Price 
and  Van  Dorn  at  Corinth,  Mississippi — the  third 
and  fourth.  Twenty-eight  thousand  Confederates 
hurled  themselves  against  the  forts — Robinette, 
Williams,  Richardson,  and  a  fourth,  Powell,  near 
the  Corinth  Seminary.  These  were  all  new  forts, 
unknown  to  the  Confederate  generals.  Fort  Will 
iams  was  a  very  strong  work,  defended  by  big 
thirty-pound  Parrotts — a  type  of  our  best  guns  at 
that  day.  I  have  heard  of  surprises  in  war.  But 
I  think  the  completest  I  ever  saw  was  one  sprung 
by  this  bastion  of  big  guns  upon  a  little  Confeder 
ate  field  battery  at  the  beginning  of  Corinth  fight. 
The  enemy  knew  well  the  location  of  the  town,  and 
before  daylight  they  ran  that  little  park  of  six- 
pounders  up  under  the  guns  of  Battery  Williams 
and  began  shelling  the  town,  greatly  to  the  dis- 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

comfiture  of  a  few  thousand  non-combatants  who 
dwelt  therein,  for  it  was  a  great  depot  of  supplies. 
The  gunners  enjoyed  the  little  fight  they  were  hav 
ing  all  by  themselves,  while  the  big  fort,  blanketed 
in  the  darkness,  emulated  "Brer  Rabbit"  and  lay 
low.  But  when  daylight  raised  the  curtain,  those 
thirty -pound  Parrotts,  as  though  amazed  and  indig 
nant  at  this  nest  of  popguns  playing  war  on  the 
very  door-steps  of  their  fort,  tore  themselves  loose 
like  rifled  thunder-storms  at  musket  range.  The 
little  Confederate  battery?  Oh — that?  One  eve 
ning  of  a  dismal  November  day  a  kind-hearted  citi 
zen  of  Brooklyn  observed  a  little  boy,  weeping 
bitterly,  standing  at  the  foot  of  a  dark  stairway 
that  led  to  some  mysterious  region  above. 

"What  is  the  matter,  little  man?"  asked  the  citi 
zen  kindly. 

"Pap's  gone  up-stairs  to  lick  the  editor,"  sobbed 
the  boy. 

"Well,"  said  the  philanthropist,  "hasn't  he  come 
down  again?" 

The  boy  sobbed  afresh.     He  said: 


GOOD    FIGHTING    ON    POOR    FOOQ 

"P-pieces  of  him  have!" 

It  seems  to  me,  as  I  recall  the  incident  at  this 
distance,  that  fragments  of  those  little  cannon  came 
down  during  that  afternoon.  However,  I  was  much 
occupied  with  things  nearer  me  that  day  and  was 
not  looking  for  the  descent  of  terrestrial  meteors. 

A  Baptism  of  Fire — and  of  Tears 

Twenty-eight  thousand  Confederates  dashed 
themselves  against  our  line  of  defense  those  two 
savage  days  like  waves  of  the  sea.  My  own  regi 
ment  lay  in  the  ditch  of  Battery  Robinette,  which 
bore  the  brunt  of  the  final  attack.  Curtains  of 
infantry  connected  the  forts.  For  a  wall  of  sand 
is  as  good  to  stop  the  sea  as  a  sea-wall  of  granite. 
Twenty  thousand  boys  in  blue  there  were  under 
Rosecrans,  fresh  from  fighting  the  same  foes  at 
luka,  where  our  major,  Cromwell,  had  been  taken 
prisoner.  The  fighting  on  the  third  at  Corinth 
punished  the  Federals  severely.  At  half  past  nine 
o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth,  Price's  col 
umn,  formed  en  masse,  came  charging  along  the 
123 


THE   DRUMS    OF   THE    47TH 

Bolivar  road  like  a  human  torrent.  It  moved  in 
phalanx  shape  through  a  storm  of  iron  and  lead 
from  batteries  and  infantry,  and  drove  through  all 
opposition,  the  men  bowing  their  faces,  but  push 
ing  on,  as  men  crowd  their  way  against  a  driving 
storm.  As  it  came  within  rifle-range  the  phalanx 
divided  into  two  columns  covering  the  front  of  the 
forts.  It  captured  Fort  Richardson  and  General 
Rosecrans'  headquarters,  in  front  of  which  seven 
dead  Confederates  were  found  after  the  battle.  It 
seemed  that  nothing  could  stop  that  onrush  of  de 
termined  men.  But  in  the  score  of  minutes  that  so 
often  decides  a  battle,  the  Fifty-sixth  Illinois  recap 
tured  Battery  Richardson,  the  heavy  assaulting  col 
umn  was  thrown  into  confusion,  and  the  splendid 
charge  was  turned  into  a  swift  retreat.  The  whole 
affair  lasted  half  an  hour. 

Meanwhile  Van  Dorn's  column,  which  should 
have  cooperated  simultaneously  with  that  under 
Price,  but  was  delayed  by  the  natural  obstacles  of 
broken  ground,  tangled  swamps  and  densely- 
wooded  thickets,  came  charging  in  on  the  Chewalla 


GOOD    FIGHTING    ON    POOR    FOOD 

road.  Texans  and  Mississippians  these  fighters 
were.  I  was  greatly  disturbed  to  perceive  they 
were  headed  straight  for  our  position — Forts  Will 
iams  and  Robinette;  but  then  I  thought  of  those 
fearful  Parrott  thirty-pounders  and  the  terrible 
guns  of  our  own  Robinette  trained  point-blank  on 
that  charging  whirlwind.  Colonel  Rogers  himself 
led  his  Texans,  densely  formed,  in  a  close  charging 
line  massed  four  deep,  the  Mississippians  keeping 
pace  with  them.  The  infantrymen  sprang  to  their 
feet.  Volley  after  volley  of  musketry  helped  the 
big  guns  tear  the  assaulting  lines  to  pieces.  But 
they  kept  on.  They  struck  the  infantry  supports 
as  a  great  combing  wave  strikes  a  reef.  They  beat 
us  down  with  their  muskets  and  thrust  us  away  with 
bayonet  lunges.  Colonel  Rogers  leaped  the  ditch  at 
the  head  of  his  men  and  was  killed  on  the  slope  of 
the  parapet.  We  saw  the  soldiers  in  gray  swarming 
into  the  embrasures,  fighting  with  the  gunners  who 
met  them  hand-to-hand  with  muskets  and  sponge 
staffs.  The  Ohio  brigade  of  Stanley's  division,  fir 
ing  withering  volleys,  came  to  the  rescue  of  the 
125 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

forts  and  their  supports,  and  Confederate  rein 
forcements  hurried  into  the  maelstrom  of  fire  and 
steel.  Our  colonel,  Thrush,  was  killed,  shot  through 
the  heart.  Step  by  step  we  crowded  them  back 
until  they  shared  the  fate  of  the  other  column  and 
turned  in  retreat.  The  battle  was  over.  Battalions 
of  gray  and  blue  stretched  themselves  along  the 
dusty  roads  toward  the  Hatchie  River,  in  mad  re 
treat  and  hot  pursuit.  Of  the  forty-eight  thousand 
troops  engaged,  seven  thousand  two  hundred  were 
killed  and  wounded,  showing  how  continuous  had 
been  the  fighting.  There  had  been  no  idling  pre 
cious  time  away  in  the  great  industry  of  Christian 
nations — killing  one  another.  Of  the  casualties 
four  thousand  eight  hundred  were  Confederates, 
two  thousand  four  hundred  Federals.  I  know  that 
none  of  the  wounded,  and  I  don't  think  one  man  of 
the  killed  on  either  side,  changed  his  opinions  be 
cause  the  other  man  had  fired  first  or  more  accu 
rately  than  himself.  That  shows  how  much  of  an 
argument  war  is. 

That  night  I  was  detailed  on  duty  with  the  par- 
126 


GOOD    FIGHTING    ON    POOR    FOOD 

ties  that  go  over  the  field,  looking  for  the  wounded 
and  the  dead,  succoring  the  living,  burying  the 
dead.  The  savage  day  had  been  a  baptism  of  fire. 
The  night  was  a  baptism  of  tears.  The  day  had 
been  the  terrible  inspiration  of  battle.  The  night 
was  the  meditation  of  sorrow.  On  the  battle-field 
Death  was  the  grisly  King  of  Terrors,  wearing  the 
black  plumes  of  a  mighty  conqueror,  naked  and 
splendid  and  bloody  in  his  brutality.  Fighting 
under  his  crimson  standard  the  gentlest  soldier  was 
shouting,  "Kill !  kill  1"  Here,  in  the  star  shine  that 
sifted  sorrowfully  down  through  the  pines  on  the 
white  faces  and  mangled  figures,  he  was  terrible  in 
his  silent  reproaches — "Why  have  you  men  called 
me  out  and  set  me  on  to  do  these  things?" 

The  Acorn1  s  Silent  Message 

We  found  a  dead  Confederate  lying  on  his  back, 
his  outspread  fingers  stretched  across  the  stock  of 
the  rifle  lying  at  his  side.  He  was  one  of  Rogers' 
Texans.  Fifty-seven  of  them  we  had  found  lying 
in  the  ditch  of  Battery  Robinette.  I  covered  his 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

face  with  the  slouch  hat  still  on  his  head  and  took 
off  the  haversack  slung  to  his  neck  that  it  might 
not  swing  as  we  carried  him  to  his  sleeping-cham 
ber,  so  cool  and  quiet  and  dark  after  the  savage 
tumult  and  dust  and  smoke  of  that  day  of  horror. 

"Empty,  isn't  it?"  asked  the  soldier  working 
with  me.  I  put  my  hand  in  it  and  drew  forth  a 
handful  of  roasted  acorns.  I  showed  them  to  my 
comrade.  "That's  all,"  I  said. 

"And  he's  been  fighting  like  a  tiger  for  two  days 
on  that  hog's  forage,"  he  commented.  We  gazed 
at  the  face  of  the  dead  soldier  with  new  feelings. 
By  and  by  my  comrade  said: 

"I  hate  this  war  and  the  thing  that  caused  it.  I 
was  taught  to  hate  slavery  before  I  was  taught  to 
hate  sin.  I  love  the  Union  as  I  love  my  mother — 
better.  I  think  this  is  the  wickedest  war  that  was 
ever  waged  in  the  world.  But  this" — and  he  took 
some  of  the  acorns  from  my  hand — "this  is  what 
I  call  patriotism." 

"Comrade,"  I  said,  t{I'm  going  to  send  these 
home  to  the  Peoria  Transcript.  I  want  them  to  tell 


GOOD   FIGHTING   ON    POOR    FOOD 

the  editor  this  war  won't  be  ended  until  there  is  a 
total  failure  of  the  acorn  crop.  I  want  the  folks  at 
home  to  know  what  manner  of  men  we  are  fight- 

ing." 

That  was  early  in  my  experience  as  a  soldier.  I 
never  changed  my  opinion  of  the  cause  of  the  Con 
federacy.  I  was  more  and  more  devoted  to  the 
Union  as  the  war  went  on.  But  I  never  questioned 
the  sincerity  of  the  men  in  the  Confederate  ranks. 
I  realized  how  dearly  a  man  must  love  his  own 
section  who  would  fight  for  it  on  parched  acorns. 
I  wished  that  his  love  and  patriotism  had  been 
broader,  reaching  from  the  Gulf  to  the  Lakes — a 
love  for  the  Union  rather  than  for  a  state.  But  I 
understood  him.  I  hated  his  attitude  toward  the 
Union  as  much  as  ever,  but  I  admired  the  man. 
And  after  Corinth  I  never  could  get  a  prisoner 
half-way  to  the  rear  and  have  anything  left  in  my 
haversack. 

Oh,  I  too  have  suffered  the  pangs  of  hunger  for 
my  dear  country,  as  all  soldiers  have  done  now  and 
then.  But  not  as  that  Confederate  soldier  did.  We 
129 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

went  hungry  at  times,  when  rain  and  mud  or  the 
interference  of  the  enemy  detained  the  supply 
trains.  But  that  man  half -starved.  That's  differ 
ent.  After  the  battle  of  Nashville,  December,  1864, 
we  marched  in  pursuit  of  Hood  as  far  as  the  Ten 
nessee  River.  There,  for  more  than  a  week,  we 
subsisted  on  corn — not  canned  corn  and  not  even 
popcorn,  but  common,  yellow,  field  corn  on  the  cob. 
And  the  row  we  suffering  hero-martyrs  made  about 
it !  A  soldier  was  carrying  a  couple  of  ears  of  corn 
to  a  camp-fire  to  parch  for  his  supper.  A  mule 
tethered  near  by  saw  him  and  lifted  up  its  dreadful 
voice  in  piteous  braying.  The  indignant  warrior 
smote  him  in  the  jaw,  crying,  "You  get  nine  pounds 
a  day  and  I  get  only  five,  you  long-eared  glutton, 
and  now  you  want  half  of  mine !" 

Bare  Feet  and  Empty  Stomachs 

In  those  days  of  sore  distress  we  learned  various 
ways  of  preparing  field  corn  to  make  it  edible.    We 
parched  it  and  carried  it  around  in  our  pockets, 
130 


GOOD    FIGHTING    ON    POOR    FOOD 

munching  it  at  all  hours  and  coughing  the  hulls 
out  of  our  esophagi  with  raucous  hacks.  We  made 
hominy  of  it,  as  the  negroes  taught  us,  boiling  it  in 
lye  made  from  our  abundance  of  wood  ashes,  and 
hulling  it  in  mortars  hollowed  in  the  oak  stumps. 
Then  we  learned  to  make  corn  pudding.  This  was 
hominy  served  on  another  plate  for  dessert.  The 
"other  plate"  we  obtained  by  scouring  the  same  one 
with  ashes  and  a  corn-cob.  Also  we  made  corn  pie, 
molding  cold  hominy  into  pie-like  shape,  very  like 
the  sauce  of  John  Baptist  Cavaletto  in  Marseilles 
prison  who  made  what  he  would  of  his  three  hunks 
of  dry  black  bread  by  cutting  them  into  the  de 
sired  forms  of  melon,  omelet  and  Lyons  sausage. 
So  we  made  the  hominy  into  the  likeness  of  the 
dishes  we  "honed  for."  We  used  to  say  that  we 
dined  with  the  mules  because  the  cook  was  on  holi 
day. 

Other  haversacks  we  found  that  night  on  Corinth 
field  with  scant  rations  in  them.     Sometimes  it  was 
a  chunk  of  corn  pone.     I  used  to  think  hardtack 
131 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH3 

filled  the  order  for  concrete  breakfast  slab,  but 
corn  pone  a  week  old  reconciled  me  to  soft  food. 
Hardtack  for  mine. 

So  the  southern  people  loved  the  states  for 
which  they  suffered.  As  Professor  Sloan  writes  of 
the  French  nation:  "No  people  ever  made  sucH 
sacrifices  for  liberty  as  the  French  had  made. 
Through  years  of  famine  they  had  starved  with  a 
grim  determination,  and  the  leanness  of  their  race 
was  a  byword  for  more  than  a  generation."  That 
was  why  they  held  Europe  at  bay  in  their  bare  feet 
and  with  empty  stomachs.  Any  cause  for  which 
we  suffer  deeply  grows  dearer  to  us  with  the  suf 
fering.  We  love  it  highly  and  holily.  And  when 
I  listen  to  this  beloved  country  of  ours  talking 
morning,  noon  and  night  about  money,  and  money, 
and  more  money,  I  think  of  the  parched  acorns  I 
found  in  the  haversack  of  that  brave  Confederate 
soldier  lying  on  Corinth  field  with  his  face  turned 
toward  the  stars. 


XII 


GETTING   ACQUAINTED    WITH    GRANT 

SPEAKING  of  fighting  and  starving  and  eating, — 
you  know  you  can't  talk  about  war  without  discuss 
ing  food,  for  soldiers  eat  a  great  deal  more  than 
they  fight, — at  a  reunion  banquet  once  upon  a  time 
a  private  soldier  was  called  on  for  a  speech.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  a  little  nervously,  looked  up  and 
down  the  crowded  banquet  board,  and  said: 

"Boys,  I  am  not  much  of  an  orator,  but  I  will 
say  this:  There's  a  heap  sight  more  of  you  here 
to-night  than  I  ever  saw  in  a  fight." 

And  he  sank  into  his  chair  overwhelmed  by  an 
avalanche  of  appreciative  and  enthusiastic  ap 
plause. 

I  think  one  of  the  most  impressive  services  held 

in  the  Federal  armies  during  the  war  must  have 

been  a  certain  Thanksgiving  sermon  preached  by 

Chaplain  H.  Clay  Trumbull.     He  told  me  about  it 

133 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

in  one  of  the  little  talks  I  had  with  him  which  are 
fragrant  memories  in  afternoon  days.  The  lines 
in  Virginia  were  drawn  very  close  together,  as  so 
much  of  the  time  they  were.  It  was  stormy  equinoc 
tial  weather,  impassable  Virginia  roads  had  for 
days  delayed  the  supply  train,  and  officers  and 
men  alike  were  living  on  very  short  rations.  But 
Thanksgiving  morning  a  commissary  train  arrived, 
bringing  to  the  Union  soldiers  plenty  of  govern 
ment  rations,  and  to  one  particular  regiment  came 
with  providential  timeliness  good  things  from  home 
— a  veritable  Thanksgiving  feast.  The  pickets 
were  firing  spiteful  little  shots  at  each  other  as 
occasion  served;  occasionally  a  little  skirmish 
marred  the  pleasure  of  the  occasion;  at  intervals 
a  field-gun  boomed  its  defiance  through  an  em 
brasured  bastion.  The  blue  smoke  hung  sullenly 
over  the  lines,  and  no  soldier  could  know  at  what 
moment  the  quarrelsome  skirmishing  or  a  general's 
opportunity  might  bring  on  a  battle.  But  the 
happy  regiment,  grateful  for  its  anticipated 
Thanksgiving  dinner  of  "mother's  good  things," 
134 


GETTING    ACQUAINTED    WITH    GRANT 

mustered  for  service,  and  Chaplain  Trumbull,  in 
spired  by  the  occasion  and  his  always  happy  rec 
ognition  of  the  only  text  for  the  special  hour, 
preached  from  the  passage  in  the  Shepherd  Psalm : 
"Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  pres 
ence  of  mine  enemies." 

A  Homesick  Warrior  with  No  Place  to  Weep 

What  a  meeting-house!  What  a  congregation! 
What  a  text!  And  what  a  preacher!  There  was 
one  occasion  certainly  in  which  the  entire  sermon 
was  in  the  text.  The  soldiers  were  electrified  with 
the  wondrous  harmony  and  appropriateness  of  the 
service  and  its  environment.  No  man  who  heard  it 
ever  forgot  the  exposition  of  that  passage.  That 
was  one  of  Chaplain  Trumbull's  rare  gifts — recog 
nizing  a  text  that  would  preach  itself.  A  good  hint 
for  a  Sunday-school  teacher.  A  good  topic  will 
illuminate  a  lesson  as  a  headlight  displays  the 
track.  One  of  the  most  delightful  of  American 
humorists — Charles  Heber  Clarke,  of  Philadelphia, 
— once  said  to  me,  "I  wrote  the  book  in  about  six 
135 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

weeks.     Then  I  spent  three  months  thinking  of  a 
title.     Then  the  title  sold  the  book." 

This,  however,  is  somewhat  irrelevant.  But  not 
altogether  so.  Good  things  from  home  were  more 
welcome  to  the  soldier  than  December  sunshine.  I 
think  that  was  especially  so  of  the  western  troops. 
We  wandered  so  far  from  home  in  search  of  our 
enemies  sometimes.  Texas  was  a  long  way  from 
Wisconsin.  It  was  a  far  cry  from  Michigan  to 
Alabama.  There  was  neither  daily  nor  weekly 
mail.  Letters  reached  us  when  and  where  they 
could  catch  up  with  us.  Once  upon  a  time,  when  I 
had  been  away  from  home  nearly  two  years,  our 
division  was  taken  north  by  steamboats  from  Mem 
phis  to  escort  "Pap  Price"  out  of  Missouri,  where 
he  was  having  too  much  his  own  way  with  the  state 
militia.  And  one  day  from  Cairo  to  St.  Louis  we 
steamed  up  along  the  pleasant  panorama  of  the 
Illinois  shore  of  the  Mississippi.  I  think  there 
was  also  a  shore  on  the  Missouri  side — there  is 
now,  I  know,  and  it  is  quite  probable  there  may 
have  been  a  bank  in  that  direction  in  1864.  I 
136 


GETTING   ACQUAINTED    WITH    GRANT 

never  saw  it.  I  sat  on  the  starboard  wheel-house 
and  saw  every  mile  of  that  blessed  Prairie  State 
from  Cairo  to  East  St.  Louis.  That  was  Grand 
Tower,  and  that  was  Chester.  There  was  the 
mouth  of  the  Kaskaskia  River,  and  there — oh,  there 
was  the  "old  Sam  Gaty,"  headed  for  Peoria  and  La- 
Salle,  and  my  mother  wasn't  a  day  away, from  me! 
And  I  couldn't  even  go  ashore — we  never  once 
touched  at  an  Illinois  port.  Not  once.  And  that 
old  steamboat  we  were  on — the  Des  Homes — it  was 
the  division  "flag-ship"  and  was  crowded  from  pike 
staff  to  rudder  with  infantry  and  artillerymen.  I 
prowled  all  over  it,  from  pilot-house  to  hold,  and 
there  wasn't  one  secluded  spot  on  that  illy-contrived 
craft  wherein  a  roystering  warrior,  who  was  at  that 
time  in  the  mounted  service  and  an  orderly  at  divi 
sion  headquarters — a  swaggering  trooper  who  wore 
clanking  spurs  and  a  jangling  saber,  tilted  his  hat 
far  to  starboard  and  made  as  much  noise  when  he 
crossed  the  deck  as  a  load  of  scrap-iron  on  a  Phila 
delphia  cobble  street — there  wasn't  one  place,  I  say, 
where  that  sort  of  a  "mighty  man"  could  go  and 
1ST 


THE    DRUMS    OF   THE    47TH 

have  a  good  cry  in  any  kind  of  comfortable  privacy. 
So  I  saved  my  weeping  until  we  caught  up  with  old 
"Pap  Price,"  and  he  gave  me  something  that  occu 
pied  my  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  tears.  I  have 
seen  homesick  people  three  thousand  miles  away 
from  home.  But  oh,  that  trooper  whose  hat  was 
pulled  down  over  his  eyes  and  who  held  his  under 
lip  with  his  hand  to  keep  it  from  flopping  against 
his  teeth,  was  the  homesickest  thing  that  ever 
sopped  his  yellow-braided  cuffs  with  tears  because 
he  was  afraid  somebody  might  see  him  if  he  used 
his  handkerchief.  But  there  is  no  comfort  in  that 
sort  of  a  cry,  when  you  are  continually  looking 
around  to  see  if  anybody  is  laughing.  There  is 
no  pleasure  in  that  kind  of  weeping.  Every  army 
transport  that  is  built  to  carry  young  soldiers 
ought  to  be  constructed  with  crying  places. 

Only  a  little  way  above  Ste.  Genevieve  another 
boat  in  the  fleet  ran  into  us,  smashed  our  wheel- 
house  and  swept  half  a  dozen  mules  overboard.  All 
but  one  of  them  drowned.  That  happy  hybrid 
swam  ashore  and  landed  in  Illinois.  He  waved  his 
138 


GETTING   ACQUAINTED   WITH   GRANT 

paint-brush  tail  triumphantly  and  disappeared  in 
the  willows  headed  for  Evansville  on  the  Kaskaskia, 
right  in  the  heart  of  Randolph  County.  The  only 
mule  I  ever  envied. 

A  box  of  good  things  from  home — the  only  one 
that  ever  reached  me  during  the  war — was  the  sim 
ple  means  of  introducing  me  to  my  commanding 
general.  We  were  camped  at  Young's  Point,  Lou 
isiana,  where  we  were  employed  in  digging  that 
famous  canal  that  was  designed  to  carry  the  fleet 
around  Vicksburg  in  that  great  campaign,  when 
a  man  of  my  company  came  up  from  the  river  one 
day  and  said,  "There's  a  box  addressed  to  you 
down  on  one  of  the  steamboats." 

The  Private  Meets  the  General 

While  he  was  yet  speaking,  it  seems  to  me,  I  had 
ascertained  the  name  of  the  boat,  got  a  pass  to  the 
river  and  an  order  for  my  box  and  was  on  my  way. 
I  presented  my  order  to  a  civilian  commissioner  on 
the  boat  and  was  informed  that  all  the  stores  on  the 
transport,  private  and  public,  were  the  property  of 
139 


[THE   DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  Sanitary  Commission,  having  been  seized  for 
use  in  the  hospitals.  Get  into  the  hospital,  he  said 
kindly,  and  I  could  have  some  of  the  contents  of 
my  box.  I  said  there  was  a  smallpox  hospital  a 
few  miles  up  the  river  that  I  could  get  into,  but  I 
didn't  want  the  box  so  badly  as  that,  although  I 
did  want  it  at  almost  any  price  short  of  the  pest- 
house.  I  prowled  around  until  I  found  my  precious 
box.  I  showed  it  to  the  commissioner,  feeling  pretty 
certain  that  if  it  looked  as  good  to  him  as  it  did  to 
me  he  would  relent  and  let  me  have  it.  The  very 
sight  of  it  produced  in  me  a  spasm  of  the  same  kind 
of  homesickness  I  afterward  contracted  going  up 
the  Mississippi  to  St.  Louis.  He  said  he  knew 
how  tempting  it  looked,  but  dut}^ — he  paused  im 
pressively  on  the  word  and  bade  me  remember  what 
duty  meant  to  a  soldier.  He  pronounced  it  "d-dou- 
ble  o."  I  lost  my  temper  and  told  him  I  had  heard 
the  colonel  say  it  much  better  and  far  more  em 
phatically. 

I  tried  one  more  appeal.     I  knew  there  would  be 
letters  in  the  box.     Might  I  open  it  and  get  my 
140 


GETTING   ACQUAINTED    WITH    GRANT 

letters?  I  had  made  a  mistake  in  being  sar 
castic,  and  he  wouldn't  even  let  me  do  that,  and 
finally  ordered  me  off  the  boat.  I  think  my  lip 
must  have  hung  down  very  pathetically,  for  the  big 
Irish  mate  followed  me  to  the  gangplank. 

"Ye'll  get  yer  box,  me  lad,"  he  said,  "if  ye  do 
as  I  tell  ye.  Go  up  on  the  cabin  deck  an'  ask  the 
Quid  Man." 

Who  was  the  Old  Man? 

"Ould  Grant,  no  less.  He  kem  aboard  about  an 
hour  ago,  an'  he's  up  there  smokin'  this  minute  whin 
I  kem  down.  I'll  pass  ye  the  gyard  and  ye'll  go  on 
up.  Come  an  wid  ye."  He  led  me  up  to  the  cabin 
deck.  There  sat  the  silent  brown-bearded  man 
whose  features  every  soldier  knew  and  whose  great 
ness  every  western  soldier  held  in  unquestioning 
reverence.  I  saluted,  the  mate  explained  my  er 
rand,  and  the  general  looked  out  over  the  turbid 
Mississippi  and  smoked  silently  while  I  pleaded  my 
little  case.  Then  he  asked  for  my  order.  My  heart 
beat  high  with  the  hope  that  he  would  write  a  mili 
tary  O.  K.  across  it  with  magic  initials.  To  m^ 
141 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

amazement,  he  read  it  and  rose  to  his  feet.  "Come 
with  me,"  he  said.  And  a  bewildered  private  sol 
dier,  escorted  by  the  General  Commanding  the  Mili 
tary  Division  of  the  Mississippi,  followed  him  to 
the  civilian  commissioner.  I  pointed  out  my  prop 
erty,  and  General  Grant  handed  the  order  to  the 
civilian. 

The  Inside  of  a  Box  from  Mother. 

"Give  the  boy  his  box,"  he  said  simply.  The 
commissioner  bowed  and  I  saluted.  I  wish  I  could 
imitate  that  salute  now.  It  was  a  combination  of 
reverence,  admiration,  kotow  and  renewed  assur 
ance  of  a  distinguished  consideration.  Except  pos 
sibly  in  China,  the  general  never  again  received 
such  an  all-comprehensive  obeisance.  The  cigar 
between  the  fingers  swept  a  half-circle  of  smoke  as 
the  Commander,  with  military  punctiliousness,  re 
turned  the  private's  salute,  and  with  a  half-smile 
playing  under  the  brown  mustache,  created,  I  fear, 
by  that  all-comprehensive,  unprecedented  salute  of 
mine?  he  returned  to  his  chair  on  the  cabin  deck> 

14$ 


GETTING   ACQUAINTED   WITH   GRANT 

while  the  big  mate  patted  my  back  all  the  way  to 
the  gangplank.  That's  why  I  love  an  Irishman. 
i  And  I?  I  simply  unfolded  the  hidden  wings 
which  we  wear  on  our  feet  for  such  occasions,  and 
with  a  box  as  big  as  a  field-desk  on  my  shoulders 
flew  airily  and  swiftly  to  the  bower — that's  what  it 
was — tents  of  brushwood — of  C  Company,  where  I 
held  high  wassail  with  my  comrades  while  we 
scraped  that  box  to  the  bones.  First  thing,  cake; 
then  canned  things  and  more  cake;  desiccated 
things;  other  kind  of  cake;  condensed  milk; 
layer-cake;  can  of  preserves;  sponge  cake;  jar  of 
spiced  things ;  fruit  cake ;  socks  and  handkerchiefs ; 
card  of  gingerbread ;  assorted  things ;  perfumed 
soap ;  j  elly ;  cookies ;  pocket-knife  and  marble-cake. 
The  rest  of  the  box  was  filled  with  cake.  Mother 
knew  what  was  good  for  her  boy,  all  right.  Didn't 
she  raise  him?  She  couldn't  tell  what  physical  or 
psychical  changes  being  a  warrior  might  have 
made  in  him,  but  she  knew  that  the  stomach  he  took 
away  from  home  with  him  would  last  during  the 
war.  Only  the  remarkable  fact  that  other  moth- 
143 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

ers'  boys  have  about  the  same  general  kind  of  stom 
achs  saved  me  from  the  hospital  that  day.  And 
just  as  we  scraped  the  last  cake  crumbs  together, 
all  at  once,  with  a  unanimous  community  of  senti 
ment,  we  remembered  the  captain. 

Often  as  I  journey  to  New  York  I  have  time  to 
go  out  to  the  stately  mausoleum  on  Riverside  Drive, 
bearing  over  its  portals  the  message  of  the  great 
captain  to  the  warring  world — "Let  us  have  peace." 
I  stand  uncovered  as  I  look  at  the  sarcophagus  that 
holds  his  dust.  I  think  of  his  greatness  and  of  his 
simplicity.  The  courage  of  the  soldier,  the  rare 
abilities  of  the  general,  and  the  gentleness  of  the 
man.  I  see  him  going  with  a  private  soldier,  and 
hear  him,  in  the  voice  that  could  have  moved  armies 
of  half-a-million  men,  issuing  the  quiet  command 
that  gave  to  a  boy  a  little  box  of  things  from 
mother.  And  that  picture  harmonizes  perfectly 
with  all  the  others. 


xm 

WAE  THE  DESTROYER 

only  two  miles  ahead  of  you,"  shouted 
the  cavalryman  with  the  voice  of  a  prophet,  mounted 
on  a  foam-flecked  horse,  black  as  midnight.  He 
thundered  down  the  column  in  a  whirlwind  of  yel 
low  dust,  stormed  with  our  cheers,  for  like  an  echo 
to  his  words  we  heard  the  dull  "boom-boom"  of  a 
distant  battery,  and  we  caught  the  battle  madness 
with  the  dust  cast  up  like  the  smoke  of  an  incanta 
tion  by  those  flying  hoofs. 

Colonel  McClure  flung  his  arms  apart  in  a  ges 
ture  of  command,  and  with  cheers  yet  more  deaf 
ening  and  hearts  beating  high  with  anticipation, 
the  column  broke  with  orderly  disorder  as  we  sprang 
to  the  preliminary  work  of  destruction.  For  a 
battle  always  begins  with  destruction,  before  ever 
a  shot  is  fired. 

The  colonel's  gesture,  clearly  understood  when 
145 


THE    DRUMS    OF   THE    47TH 

his  voice  could  not  be  heard,  sent  us  like  human 
cyclones  leaping  at  the  fences  that  hemmed  the 
road.  Such  a  beautiful  country  we  were  march 
ing  through,  that  summer  day.  A  park  for  love 
liness;  a  granary  for  fertility.  Low  hills  whose 
wooded  crests  smiled  on  the  corn-fields  that  ran 
down  to  the  emerald  meadows.  A  creek  meander 
ing  across  the  plantations,  loitering  in  its  broad  and 
shallow  bends  to  photograph  the  white  clouds  pos 
ing  against  the  soft  turquoise  skies;  stately  old 
plantation  homes  with  their  colonial  architecture; 
the  little  villages  of  negro  quarters  in  the  rear; 
pleasant  orchards  and  fragrant  gardens. 

How  beautiful  they  were,  those  sweet  old  south 
ern  homes !  And  dear  and  fair  some  of  them  still 
stand,  here  and  there  in  the  new  South,  amid  the 
rush  and  clatter  of  modernity  and  progress,  of 
steam  and  electricity,  gasoline,  automobiles  and  air 
ships,  tourists  and  promoters  and  prospectors,  iron 
furnaces  and  coal-mines.  Not  as  scolding  protests 
against  progress,  development  and  prosperity — 
they  are  too  gentle  for  that.  They  stand  rather 
146 


WAR    THE    DESTROYER 

as  beautiful  memories  of  all  that  was  sweetest  and 
fairest  and  best  in  the  Old  South.  What  colonial 
grace  in  their  white-columned  verandas.  What 
stateliness  in  the  heavy  cornice;  what  welcome  of 
hospitality  in  the  spacious  doors  with  their  old- 
time  "side-lights,"  and  in  the  sunny  smiles  of  the 
many-windowed  front.  The  shadow  of  pathos  rests 
upon  them  now,  tenderly  as  the  sun-kissed  haze 
of  Indian-summer  days.  They  temper  our  nervous 
desire  for  "newness";  they  correct  our  taste  for 
architectural  frenzies  of  many-gabled  deformities 
and  varicolored  creosote  "complexions."  They  are 
of  the  old  order,  which,  like  the  Old  Guard,  dies, 
but  never  surrenders  to  modern  changes.  They 
stood  here  before  the  war.  They  have  been  del 
uged  with  woe.  They  have  been  baptized  in  sor 
rows,  the  bitterness  and  depth  of  which  our  north 
ern  homes  never  knew — can  not  know — please  God, 
never  will  know.  And  some  of  their  anguish  have 
been  the  common  sorrows  of  all  homes  in  war 
times — the  heartache  of  bereaved  motherhood;  the 
agony  of  widowhood;  the  loneliness  of  the  or- 
147 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

phaned.  The  loving  Father  of  us  all  has  made 
the  sorrow  that  is  common  a  healing  balm  that 
makes  holy  and  tender  the  bitterness  of  the  cruel 
past.  The  kisses  that  rained  on  the  faces  of  the 
dead  have  blossomed  into  the  perfumed  lilies  of 
consolation  for  the  living. 

A  June  Day  Cyclone 

And  framing  all  that  picture  that  lay  along 
the  line  of  march  that  June  day,  joining  and  sep 
arating  all  the  fields  with  their  zigzag  embroidery, 
picked  out  here  and  there  with  the  greenery  of  wild 
vines,  and  stitching  in  the  winding  yellow  road 
way  as  though  it  were  a  dusty  river,  were  the  old 
rail  fences,  picturesque  in  weather-beaten  grays 
with  the  artistic  trimmings  of  clambering  festoons 
of  leaf  and  blossom.  A  moment  before  our  souls 
were  drinking  in  this  beauty  until  a  little  ache  of 
homesickness  added  the  bitter-sweet  to  the  esthetic 
draught.  Then,  as  the  wild  shouting  ended,  far 
as  the  length  of  the  column  wound  along  that  road, 
there  wasn't  a  panel  of  fence  to  be  seen.  Not 
148 


WAR    THE    DESTROYER 

one.  Months  of  cheery  toil  it  had  taken  to  fence 
that  highway  out  and  shut  the  green  fields  in  with 
a  legal  fence  "horse  high,  pig  tight  and  bull 
strong."  Now  as  we  picked  up  our  grounded  mus 
kets  or  took  them  from  the  "stack,"  we  looked 
upon  an  open  country.  A  cyclone  could  not  have 
accomplished  the  destruction  more  completely. 

The  fences  had  been  a  protection  to  the  young 
wheat  and  the  growing  corn.  They  were  the  de 
fenders  of  hungry  men  and  women,  of  little  chil 
dren,  white  and  black,  who  would  cry  for  bread 
but  for  these  barriers  against  marauding  foes. 
The  crooked  lines  of  the  old  rail  fence  wore  the 
dignity  of  high  office.  But  now  they  were  in  the 
way.  When  there  is  going  to  be  a  fight  the  first 
thing  is  to  prepare  the  ring.  And  war  demands 
not  a  pent-up  little  twenty-four  foot,  rope-enclosed 
space,  but  many  square  miles  in  which  its  cham 
pions  may  maneuver.  Its  mighty  wrestlers — Life 
and  Death — must  have  abundant  room.  You  build 
a  platform  and  you  construct  a  ring  for  your  or 
dinary  prize-fighters  and  wrestlers.  But  when  real 
149 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

soldiers  are  going  to  give  an  exhibition  of  real 
fighting  with  the  bare  hand,  the  cold  steel  and  the 
hot  shell,  you  first  destroy  the  country  over  which 
they  are  to  fight.  You  set  fire  to  that  dear  old 
mansion — it  would  shelter  sharpshooters.  You 
brush  away  these  protecting  fences.  They  would 
impede  the  swift  sweep  of  cavalry;  they  would 
detain  a  battery  ten  minutes,  and  lose  a  battle ;  they 
would  throw  a  line  of  charging  infantry  into  dis 
order. 

Scientific  Destruction — Even  for  the  Crows! 

When  we  saw  the  colonel's  gesture,  tired  we  were, 
thirsty  we  were,  hungry,  faint  and  breathing  dust. 
But  with  the  light-hearted  glee  of  schoolboys  we 
sprang  at  those  fences — a  man  to  a  rail — and  they 
were  gone.  Sometimes  we  merely  opened  the  panels 
like  gates,  leaving  the  alternate  corners  standing 
in  the  re-entrant  angles.  And  the  next  squirrel 
that  came  running  along  his  accustomed  highway 
would  pause  bewildered  in  his  up  and  down  career 
along  a  fence  builded  entirely  of  gaps.  But  if 
150 


WAR    THE    DESTROYER 

there  was  plenty  of  time — say  ten,  instead  of  five, 
minutes — down  to  the  level  came  all  the  fence. 

That's  war.  Destruction  of  innocent  and  use 
ful  things.  Destruction  of  everything.  When  we 
tore  up  a  railway,  it  wasn't  enough  to  demolish  it 
so  that  trains  could  not  go  over  it.  We  burned 
the  ties.  But  we  made  them  destroyers  of  other 
things  in  their  own  fiery  death.  We  builded  or 
derly  heaps  of  them — because  war  does  not  destroy 
like  a  blind  storm  that  does  not  know  how  to  de 
stroy  properly — war  destroys  scientifically.  On 
top  of  the  ties  we  laid  the  iron  rails.  The  heat 
of  the  fire  furnaced  the  rails  to  red-whiteness,  and 
their  own  weight  compelled  them  to  suicide.  They 
bent  down  in  strangling  humiliation.  Or,  if  there 
was  time,  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  longer,  men 
seized  the  ends  of  the  rails  with  improvised  tongues 
of  twisted  saplings,  ran  the  red  center  of  the  rail 
against  a  tree,  and  bent  it  around  the  oak  in  a 
glowing  knot.  The  enemy  could  make  a  new  rail 
in  less  time  than  he  could  straighten  out  that  en 
tanglement.  That's  the  way  war  destroys.  An 
151 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

axiom  of  war  is  to  leave  nothing  behind  which 
the  enemy  can  possibly  use.  "The  next  crow  that 
flies  across  Shenandoah  valley,"  said  Phil  Sheridan, 
"will  have  to  carry  his  rations  with  him."  That 
valley  was  unsurpassed  in  all  the  world  for  beauty 
and  fertility.  But  it  was  also  a  granary  and  depot 
of  supplies  for  the  Confederate  armies  in  Virginia. 
And  when  Sheridan  rode  down  from  Winchester 
town  he  was  going  to  war.  And  war  is  destruction. 

Don't  censure  Sheridan.  That  was  civilized  war. 
It  is  easy  enough  to  say  "barbarous,"  "brutal," 
"savage."  For  with  all  its  ameliorations  it  remains 
war.  As  long  as  Christian  nations  justify  war, 
they  justify  everything  that  it  is  and  everything 
that  it  does.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  Chris 
tian  war.  Genghis  Khan  waged  war  about  as 
Richard  Coaur  de  Leon  did.  The  Crusades  were 
nearly  as  cruel  as  the  marches  of  Attila.  The 
invader  is  more  destructive  because  of  his  greater 
opportunities. 

The  old  German  word  for  war  meant  "confu 
sion."  An  old  English  word  for  it  was  "worse," 
152 


WAR    THE    DESTROYER 

as  though  it  was  worse  than  the  worst  thing  you 
could  name.  It  gives  mourning  for  joy;  ashes 
for  beauty ;  the  spirit  of  heaviness  for  the  garment 
of  praise.  Law,  a  thing  most  sacred  to  our  high 
civilization,  is  dethroned;  the  Sabbath  is  despised; 
Mercy  is  buffeted;  Pity  is  struck  in  the  pleading, 
tear-stained  face  of  her.  If  another  man  doesn't 
dress  as  you  do,  he  is  worthy  of  death.  If  you 
say  to  him  "Shibboleth,"  and  he  replies  "Shibbo 
leth,"  drive  your  bayonet  through  him.  They  did 
that  at  the  fords  of  Jordan,  three  thousand  years 
ago,  and  we  haven't  improved  very  much  on  the 
principle.  That's  war. 

The  Pitiless  Wreck  of  Money  and  Men 

War  destroys  everything.  At  one  time  it  was 
costing  the  United  States  a  million  dollars  a  day 
to  fight  for  its  life.  And  what  became  of  the 
million  dollars?  Destroyed.  Burned  up  and  bro 
ken  to  pieces.  Gunpowder,  wagons,  cannon,  tents, 
guns,  drums,  clothing.  Burned  to  ashes,  ground 
to  dust ;  trampled  in  the  mud ;  thrown  into  the  river. 
153 


THE    DRUMS    OF.    THE    47TH 

The  broken  musket  is  not  mended;  it  is  smashed 
against  a  tree  to  make  the  slight  injury  complete 
destruction.  If  the  soldier's  overcoat  is  a  burden, 
he  first  tears  it  to  pieces  before  he  throws  it  away. 
The  overturned  cannon  is  abandoned;  the  broken- 
down  wagon  is  burned;  the  lame  mule  is  turned 
out  to  starve;  the  wounded  horse  is  left  to  die  in 
lingering  agony — there  isn't  even  time  to  shoot 
him.  The  injured  arm  or  wounded  leg  that  would 
be  saved  at  home  is  amputated  in  rough  haste. 
War  can't  even  take  care  of  its  heroes  properly. 
In  the  terror  of  defeat  the  wounded  are  left  moan 
ing  on  the  field  at  the  mercy  of  the  night,  the 
storm  and  the  enemy.  The  hospital  that  tries  to 
care  for  the  sick  and  wounded  feeds  the  grave  much 
more  than  does  the  battle-field. 

Even  when  it  seems  to  spare,  war  destroys.  A 
man's  right  arm  is  torn  away  at  the  elbow  by  a 
shattering  fragment  of  shell.  He  is  only  twenty 
years  old.  And  as  they  carry  him  back  to  the 
field  hospital  he  thinks  of  the  long  years  of  life 
stretching  out  before  him.  Another  young  soldier 
154 


WAR    THE    DESTROYER 

lies  on  the  operating  table,  and  with  set  teeth  and 
grim  visage  watches  an  attendant  carry  his  am 
putated  legs  away  to  common  burial  with  the 
ghastly  debris  of  the  hospital  tent.  A  cripple  for 
life — a  helpless  burden.  And  he  is  a  farmer!  A 
surgeon  bends  over  another  man  to  say  cheerfully 
in  cheery  tones  of  encouragement:  "You  had  the 
closest  call  a  man  could  have  and  not  answer  it. 
But  you're  all  right ;  you'll  live !" 

But  the  soldier  knows  that  he  will  live  in  dark 
ness,  for  the  bullet  that  spared  his  life  when  it 
swept  across  his  face  put  out  its  light  forever. 
He'll  never  be  the  man  he  was  before.  War  has 
destroyed  him.  Even  the  tender  mercies  of  war 
are  cruel. 

Oh,  I  have  seen  war  breaking  men  to  pieces  in 
this  brutal  fashion,  as  I  have  seen  you  with  your 
switching  cane  behead  the  daisies  laughing  up  into 
your  face  beside  the  meadow  path.  I  have  seen 
a  soldier  rise  from  a  piano  in  a  burning  house, 
where  he  had  been  singing  Mother  Kissed  Me  In 
My  Dream  till  our  hearts  were  tender,  and  smash 
155 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  ivory  keys,  blessed  by  the  caressing  touches 
of  some  woman's  tender  hands,  with  the  butt  of 
his  musket.  Why?  Just  to  smash  them.  That's 
the  way  the  war  spirit  transforms  the  hearts  of 
men, — good,  gentle-hearted  men  like  your  father, 
who  was  in  my  company ;  like  David,  who,  in  the 
sweet  sunshine  and  shadows  of  the  quiet  sheep  pas 
tures  sang,  "Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow 
me  all  the  days  of  my  life,"  and  then  in  war  time 
massacred  the  people  of  Kabbah,  torturing  "them 
under  saws,  and  under  harrows  of  iron,  and  axes 
of  iron."  That's  war. 


XIV 

THE   COLONEL, 

I  think  of  him,  there  comes  into  my 
memory  the  lines  of  Guy  McMaster  in  The  Old 
Continentals : 

"Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder  cloud; 

And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 

Trumpet  loud! 

Then  the  blue 

Bullets  flew, 

And  the  trooper- jackets  redden 
At  the  touch  of  the  leaden 

Rifle  breath; 

And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder, 
Roared  the  iron  six-pounder 

Breathing  death!" 

That  was  "the  old-fashioned  colonel."      He  may 
not  have  been  especially  scientific,  but  he  was  a 
157j 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

terrific  fighter,  and  after  all,  if  fighting  isn't  the 
science,  it  is  the  business  of  war. 

Because  the  Forty-seventh  was  a  fighting  regi 
ment,  it  marched  and  fought,  first  and  last,  under 
five  colonels, — all  of  them  "old-fashioned."  John 
Bryner,  our  first  colonel,  who  marched  away  from 
Peoria  with  us  in  1861;  he  died  in  the  service, 
being  reappointed  colonel  of  the  reorganized  regi 
ment  in  1865;  William  A.  Thrush,  killed  at  the 
head  of  his  regiment  at  the  battle  of  Corinth,  Octo 
ber  3,  1862 ;  John  N.  Cromwell,  killed  at  Jackson, 
Mississippi,  May  16,  1863,  our  boy  colonel;  John 
Dickson  McClure,  wounded  nigh  to  death  in  the 
siege  of  Vicksburg,  June  20,  1863;  Daniel  L, 
Miles,  lieutenant-colonel,  killed  in  the  battle  of 
Farmington,  Mississippi;  David  W.  Magee,  colo 
nel  in  1865.  My  colonels  rode  close  up  to  the 
firing-line. 

The  relation  of  the  colonel  to  his  regiment  was 

not  merely  that  of  a  military  commander.     In  the 

days  of  which  I  write,  at  least,  it  was  paternal. 

He  was  the  father  of  the  regiment.     Our  most 

158 


THE    COLONEL 

affectionate  title  for  him  was  the  "Old  Man." 
Youth  could  not  save  him  from  this  if  we  loved 
him.  He  did  not  receive  this  mark  of  honor  and 
affection  until  we  had  tried  him  out  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  had  been  at  least  once  under  fire  with  him. 
Then,  if  we  decided  that  he  would  do,  we  began 
calling  him  "the  old  man,"  in  much  the  same  in 
tonation  of  affectionate  confidence  with  which  a 
boy  calls  his  father  "daddy." 

When  We  Had  a  "Regular" 

I  suppose  there  are  boys  who  never  call  their 
paternal  parent  anything  but  father, — boys  who 
would  be  whipped  for  calling  him  daddy.  I  always 
feel  sorry  for  the  father.  And  there  have  been  colo 
nels  who  would  not  tolerate  the  familiarity  of  "the 
old  man."  But  I  think  they  were  colonels  of  militia. 
I  never  knew  a  fighting  colonel  who  didn't  like  it. 

We  once  had  the  honor  of  being  commanded  by 

a  "regular."    And  it  was  an  honor.     Our  regular 

colonel  was  Captain  George  A.  Williams,  whose 

battery  of  big  guns  the  regiment  supported  in 

3-59 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  battle  of  Corinth,  where  the  captain  won  his 
majority  for  "gallant  and  meritorious  service." 
He  was  appointed  to  command  of  the  Forty-seventh 
in  November,  1862,  because  our  old  colonel,  Miles 
Thrush,  was  dead,  shot  through  the  heart  at  Cor 
inth,  in  front  of  Williams'  guns,  and  our  new  colo 
nel,  Cromwell,  was  a  prisoner  of  war,  captured 
at  luka.  We  were  "good  boys,"  very  fond  of 
having  our  own  way,  and  for  some  reason  General 
Grant  seemed  to  think  that  the  fatherly  discipline 
of  a  West  Pointer  would  be  good  for  our  morale, 
and  therefore  appointed  Major  Williams. 

We  liked  the  "regular,"  who  had  been  appointed 
to  the  Academy  from  New  York  in  1852,  and  was 
retired  a  colonel,  I  think,  in  1870.  We  called  him 
"the  old  man"  after  three  days'  service  under  him. 
The  way  of  it  was  this.  It  was  always  desirable 
to  "try  out"  a  new  colonel  before  he  got  too  firmly 
seated  in  the  saddle.  One  of  the  men  of  my  own 
company  detailed  himself  to  trot  a  trial  heat  with 
the  West  Pointer  just  to  find  out  what  there  was 
in  the  colt.  He  refused  to  go  on  a  certain  detail 
160 


THE    COLONEL 

ordered  by  the  sergeant,  adding  to  his  curt  refusal 
that  it  took  a  bigger  man  than  himself  to  make 
him  do  what  he  didn't  want  to  do.  As  "Jacky" 
was  the  kind  of  man  whose  fists  were  in  active 
accord  with  his  word,  the  rather  prudent  sergeant 
who  happened  to  be  on  duty  that  morning  referred 
the  soldier's  insubordination  to  the  company  com 
mander.  This  officer,  who  knew  how  Jacky  had 
scandalized  the  company  on  one  or  two  similar 
occasions  by  surrounding  the  entire  non-commis 
sioned  force,  ordered  the  sergeant  to  convey  his 
prisoner  to  the  new  colonel. 

Colonel  Williams  was  a  handsome,  soldierly  ap 
pearing  man,  with  a  smile  that  was  as  alluring  as 
it  was  deceiving.  He  looked  pleasant  when  the 
sergeant  preferred  his  charge,  and  the  prisoner 
promptly  confirmed  it,  saying  that  the  detail  as 
signed  him  looked  too  much  like  work,  and  he  didn't 
enlist  to  work. 

Jacky  Allowed  to  Play 

The  smile  on  the  face  of  the  colonel  brightened. 
161 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

"No,"  he  said,  that  was  true.  No  soldier  liked  to 
work.  He  was  not  overly  fond  of  work  himself, 
although  he  was  sometimes  compelled  to  do  very 
hard,  disagreeable  things.  "So,"  he  concluded, 
"since  you  dislike  work,  you  shall  play  all  day." 
Under  instructions,  the  sergeant  marked  out  a 
circle  on  the  parade  ground  about  twenty  feet  in 
diameter.  The  soldier  who  didn't  like  to  work  was 
given  a  log  of  fire-wood  about  six  feet  long  and 
heavier  that  a  knapsack  full  of  stones.  Guards 
were  set  and  regularly  relieved,  and  the  prisoner 
began  his  play-day  by  walking  around  that  circle 
with  his  burden.  All  day  long,  from  guard  mount 
in  the  morning  to  dress  parade  in  the  evening,  he 
lugged  that  load  of  fuel.  The  guards,  who  now 
stood  in  terror  of  this  new  sort  of  good-natured 
colonel  who  wouldn't  stand  the  least  bit  of  any 
sort  of  foolishness,  and  who  smiled  like  a  seraph 
when  he  put  a  man  on  the  treadmill,  were  afraid 
to  permit  the  prisoner  to  halt  when  he  ate  his 
dinner,  which  the  cook  brought  to  him  on  a  tin 
plate.  The  sentry  allowed  him  to  lay  down  his 


THE    COLONEL 

burden  while  he  ate,  "But,"  he  said,  "you've  got 
to  keep  walkin' !"  And  walk  he  did,  wearily  shift 
ing  the  log  from  aching  shoulder  to  aching 
shoulder.  He  was  released  after  dress  parade. 

Instead  of  throwing  the  heavy  log  down  gladly 
and  indignantly,  he  stooped  and  laid  it  on  the 
ground  as  though  it  was  a  sleeping  baby.  "If 
I  had  thrown  it  down  as  hard  as  I  wanted,"  he 
afterward  explained,  "I  would  have  broken  it  into 
half  a  dozen  pieces,  and  there's  no  telling  what 
the  old  man" — he  had  learned  that  during  his  march 
— "would  do  with  me  then.  ...  I  reckon,"  he 
said  as  he  rolled  into  his  blanket  that  night,  "that  I 
toted  that  fuel  train  twenty  miles  to-day,  and  never 
got  half  a  mile  from  where  I  started." 

Colonel  Williams  was  christened  "the  old  man" 
that  day.  We  liked  him  immensely.  He  knew  how 
to  get  things  for  the  regiment  that  volunteer  offi 
cers  didn't  know  how  to  ask  for.  "The  old  man," 
said  Corporal  Lapham,  "knows  how  to  get  things 
the  other  colonels  don't  know  the  Government's 
got."  He  made  us  dress  better,  stand  better,  keep 
163 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

neater,  behave  more  soldierly  and  jump  more 
promptly  at  an  order.  He  fed  us  better,  got  more 
new  uniforms  and  blankets  for  us,  stocked  the  hos 
pital  with  more  and  better  supplies.  We  liked  him, 
we  obeyed  him,  we  were  just  a  little  bit  afraid  of 
him,  and  we  were  genuinely  sorry  when  he  went 
back  to  his  own  command.  Soldiers  do  love  a  colo 
nel  with  a  bite  right  close  behind  his  bark.  Why 
else  should  he  be  a  colonel?  "I  like  the  rooster," 
said  that  quaint  old  philosopher,  Josh  Billings, 
"for  two  things:  for  the  crow  that  is  in  him,  and 
for  the  spurs  he  wears  to  back  up  the  crow  with." 
A  crow  without  spurs  is  a  blank  cartridge. 

Because  of  this  paternal  responsibility  with 
which  the  men  invested  him,  the  colonel  of  a  vol 
unteer  regiment  was  burdened  with  a  hundred  and 
one  things  that  should  never  have  reached  him. 
We  went  to  him  with  complaints  that  should  have 
stopped  short  at  the  sergeants,  or  at  the  furthest 
never  passed  beyond  the  captain.  But  we  felt  that 
we  had  a  right  to  see  "the  old  man"  about  every 
thing.  As  a  rule  he  listened  to  us,  although  more 
164 


THE    COLONEL 

than  half  our  wrongs  were  imaginary,  and  the  other 
half  of  our  hardships  were  either  richly  deserve?! 
or  inseparable  from  the  soldier's  life.  Happy  the 
colonel  with  a  sense  of  humor  to  sit  on  the  judg 
ment  seat  beside  him.  Once  upon  a  time  we  sent 
a  delegation  of  three  men  to  complain  of  the  fear 
ful  quality  of  the  company  cooking. 

The  Committee's  Unexpected  Success 

The  colonel  agreed  with  us  without  tasting  the 
samples  of  food  we  brought  along.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "you  have  a  wretched  cook.  I  am  going  to 
detail  him  to  cook  at  regimental  headquarters, 
where  I  can  watch  him.  I'll  transfer  him  imme 
diately." 

The  committee  came  back  with  faces  of  conster 
nation  and  reported.  A  roar  of  indignant  remon 
strance  went  up  from  the  assembled  rank  and  file. 
"What!  Take  away  Billy  Wanser!  Take  away 
the  only  man  in  the  regiment  who  knew  how  to 
cook?  The  only  man  who  never  had  a  meal  late? 
The  man  who  caught  up  with  the  company  in  the 
165 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

rain  and  mud  ahead  of  the  supply  trains?  The 
only  cook  in  the  regiment  who  came  out  on  the 
battle-field  with  hot  coffee?  Take  away  Billy  Wan- 
ser?  Not  over  our  dead  bodies !"  And  we  hastened 
to  Colonel  McClure's  headquarters  in  a  uniformed 
mob  to  denounce  the  unfortunate  delegation  whom 
we  had  sent  there  half  an  hour  before,  as  a  self- 
appointed  squad  of  malcontents  who  deserved  to 
be  starved.  And  the  colonel  agreed  with  us  and 
said  he  would  put  in  irons  the  next  man  who  dared 
slander  our  matchless  cook. 

Of  all  the  colonels  under  whom  I  served,  Colonel 
John  D.  McClure  was  my  ideal.  A  man  with  a 
strong  figure  and  a  strong  face,  a  man's  voice, 
deep  and  commanding;  clear  steady  eyes,  that 
shone  with  the  kindliest  glow  that  ever  turned  into 
a  steely  gleam  when  they  looked  through  the  shuf 
fling  excuses  of  a  skulker.  He  was  captain  of 
Company  C  when  I  enlisted.  When  he  reached 
the  colonelcy  by  successive  merited  promotions,  the 
men  of  C  Company  called  him  "the  old  man"  be 
fore  he  put  on  his  new  uniform.  He  was  as  kind- 
166 


THE    COLONEL 

hearted  with  his  men  as  a  good  teacher  is  with 
children.  If  a  question  of  discipline  trembled  un 
certainly  in  the  balances,  mercy  always  tipped  the 
scale  with  a  gentle  touch  of  her  lightest  finger 
— but  it  was  enough.  He  was  at  the  side  of  a 
sick  or  wounded  soldier  as  quickly  as  surgeon  or 
chaplain  could  reach  the  sufferer,  and  there  was 
encouragement  and  consolation  in  the  deep  voice 
of  the  colonel.  Under  fire,  his  calmness  was  con 
tagious.  His  courage  rose  above  excitement. 
There  was  none  of  the  hysteria  of  battle  about 
him.  He  was  never  a  "noisy"  colonel,  though  his 
shouted  orders  reached  every  man  in  the  regiment, 
and  "his  brazen  throat  rang  trumpet  loud"  in  lead 
ing  line  or  column.  I  never  heard  him  use  a  pro 
fane  expression.  He  was  gentle  as  he  was  brave; 
quiet  as  he  was  manly.  The  regiment  loved  him 
because  he  was  of  lovable  quality.  Once,  while 
we  were  in  quarters  at  La  Grange,  Tennessee,  his 
young  wife  came  down  to  the  front  to  see  her 
husband.  Virginia  Cunningham — as  sweet  and 
beautiful  as  her  husband  was  noble.  She  and  I 
167 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

had  been  schoolmates  in  the  Peoria  High  School. 
And  if  in  those  days  of  childhood  dreamings  I 
had  ever  prophesied  that  one  day  she  would  marry 
my  colonel  and  thereby  share  his  authority  to  say 
to  me  "Come"  and  "Go,"  we  would  have  laughed 
over  it  as  the  merriest  bit  of  fiction  an  unbridled 
imagination  could  devise  for  a  summer  day's  fool 
ing.  But  that  was  just  what  happened. 

Gentle  he  was,  and  kind-hearted.  But  we  all 
knew  there  was  but  one  law  in  the  regiment.  That 
was  the  colonel's  word.  It  was  quietly  spoken,  as 
was  his  way,  in  counsel  or  on  the  field.  There 
was  no  fulmineous  profanity  to  emphasize  it  and 
no  Jacksonian  appeals  to  heaven  to  confirm  it.  But 
it  was  respected.  His  quietness  magnified  his  firm 
ness  and  courage.  His  "gentleness  made  him 
obeyed." 


XV 


A  TRIPTYCH  OF  THE  SIXTIES 

"Ready!" 

ONE  June  morning  in  1863  we  were  ordered  to 
report  at  Fort  Pillow  in  parade  accouterments  to 
see  three  men  shot. 

Here  was  a  novelty  in  our  military  experience. 
We  expected  to  see  men  shot  every  time  we  went 
out.  We  had  seen  them  shot  by  scores  and  hun 
dreds  in  the  sharpshooting  of  the  skirmish  line 
and  in  the  fearful  volleying  of  the  line  of  battle, 
by  musket  and  by  artillery,  but  never  before  had 
we  received  instructions  to  march  out  and,  with 
empty  muskets,  to  form  in  the  square  of  parade 
and  witness  the  official  shooting  of  three  of  our 
comrades. 

This  was  a  new  kind  of  killing.  I  know  that  not 
a  man  in  my  regiment  had  ever  witnessed  a  mili 
tary  execution.  I  doubt  very  much  if  a  soldier  in 
169 


THE   DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  entire  division  had  ever  seen  such  a  thing. 
There  was  a  chill  in  it  that  doesn't  come  with  the 
ordinary  death  of  a  soldier.  We  knew  there  were 
crimes  against  military  discipline  and  soldierly 
righteousness  that  were  punishable  by  death,  but 
it  had  never  come  near  to  us — never  so  near  as  this. 
I  had  seen  men  punished  before  the  regiment  for 
the  crime  of  desertion.  I  had  watched  them  while 
the  corporal  cut  the  brass  buttons  from  their  uni 
forms  to  destroy,  as  far  as  possible,  every  vestige 
of  the  soldierly  uniform  the  culprit  had  disgraced. 
Then  I  watched  them  shave  one-half  his  head  down 
to  the  white  and  glistening  scalp,  and  so  tragic 
was  the  picture  that  it  did  not  look  grotesque; 
though  ordinarily  one  would  laugh  at  such  a  thing. 
I  had  heard  his  sentence  read;  then,  as  the  fife 
shrilled  and  the  drums  played  the  lively  measures 
of  the  Rogue's  March,  the  culprit  followed  the 
corporal's  guard  down  the  front  of  the  line.  Here, 
at  the  right  of  it,  he  halted,  saluted  his  colonel, 
and  it  was  his  duty  to  thank  him  for  the  just  pun 
ishment  that  had  been  meted  out  to  him. 
170 


£    TRIPTYCH    OF    THE    SIXTIES 

In  the  only  case  in  which  I  ever  was  a  witness, 
however,  the  dishonorably  discharged  soldier  yelled 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs :  "I  am  a  civilian  now !  To 
hell  with  you  and  your  shoulder-straps!  I  am  as 
good  a  man  as  you  are !"  And  the  colonel  had  the 
grace  not  to  add  punishment  to  the  punishment 
already  inflicted  on  the  man  maddened  by  the  sting 
of  humiliation.  The  man  disappeared  from  the 
camp  that  night.  What  became  of  him  afterward 
I  never  knew. 

But  here  was  a  case  of  capital  punishment  in 
that  great  organization  of  the  army  that  was 
formed  and  drilled  and  trained  to  administer  capi 
tal  punishment  to  the  enemies  of  the  republic. 
Every  man  in  a  hostile  uniform  who  leveled  his 
musket  at  the  Stars  and  Stripes  adjudged  himself 
guilty  of  treason  and  sentenced  himself  to  death. 

But  all  this  in  the  heat  of  battle.  This  with  the 
blood  hot  and  the  pulses  throbbing  and  the  stress 
of  conflict  knotting  every  muscle  and  stretching 
every  nerve  to  a  tension  like  a  harp-string.  What 
we  were  to  witness  this  beautiful  June  morning  in 
171 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

the  suburbs  of  the  busy  city  of  Memphis  was  some 
thing  entirely  different. 

Three  men  were  to  be  punished  to  death  for  an 
offense  not  only  against  military  discipline  and 
soldierly  good  conduct,  but  for  an  offense  recog 
nized  as  gross  under  the  civic  law,  an  offense 
against  civic  righteousness  and  morality;  an  of 
fense  aggravated  by  the  circumstances  surround 
ing  its  commission.  It  seemed  strange  to  me,  as  I 
put  on  my  aceouterments,  that  we  were  to  shoot 
these  men  for  an  offense  against  the  civil  law  for 
which  the  civil  law  provided  no  capital  punish 
ment. 

The  three  condemned  men  had  occupied  one  of 
the  most  responsible  positions  in  which  a  soldier  is 
ever  placed.  Just  outside  the  city  a  few  miles  they 
were  on  picket  duty.  They  had  the  keeping  of  the 
city's  garrison  and  the  surrounding  camp  in  their 
care.  They  possessed  authority  equal  to  that  of 
an  officer.  They  were  to  scrutinize  every  person 
who  came  and  went. 

About  mid-afternoon  there  came  from  the  city 


A    TRIPTYCH    OF    THE    SIXTIES 

to  the  post  of  these  three  pickets  a  southern  farmer, 
his  wife  and  their  grown  daughter  —  a  young 
woman.  Their  pass,  signed  by  General  Hurlbut, 
was  correct,  and  they  were  told  to  pass  through  by 
the  soldier  who  read  it  and  the  corporal  who  looked 
over  his  shoulder.  It  was  simply  an  incident  of 
the  day.  A  few  moments  later,  when  these  citizens 
had  passed  but  a  few  miles  farther  on,  the  old  man 
returned,  having  met  with  an  accident.  He  had 
broken  a  wheel  so  badly  that  he  could  not  repair  it. 
He  must  go  back  into  the  city  and  secure  the  help 
of  a  wheelwright.  When  he  had  explained  the  condi 
tions  to  the  soldiers  they  gave  their  permission  and 
he  went  back  into  the  city,  leaving  his  wife  and 
daughter  a  few  miles  beyond  the  lines,  but  under 
the  protection  of  this  picket  guard,  than  which 
they  should  have  had  no  stronger  protection.  Then 
the  devil  got  into  the  hearts  of  these  men.  Bad 
men  they  may  have  been — wicked  men,  base  men, 
but  they  had  been  good  soldiers  else  they  had  not 
been  placed  in  the  responsible  position  of  picket 
guard  on  lines  so  close  to  the  city.  Through  what 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

lines  of  discussion  they  came  to  their  cruel  and  foul 
decision  I  do  not  know.  When  a  man  palters  with 
his  duty  he  is  always  on  the  way  to  betray  it. 
They  took  the  first  false  step.  They  abandoned 
their  duty  and  hurried  out  along  the  road  where 
the  disabled  wagon  was  waiting  the  return  of  its 
owner.  There  upon  the  persons  of  these  helpless 
women,  confided  absolutely  to  the  protecting  care 
and  honor  of  these  soldiers,  whose  wards  they  tem 
porarily  were,  they  committed  a  crime,  to  a  woman 
worse  than  death,  doubly  horrible  from  the  fact 
that  the  victims  of  the  lust  of  these  soldiers  were 
mother  and  daughter. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  the  man  returned.  The 
wife  and  daughter  told  him  of  the  horror  that  had 
befallen  them.  Straightaway  he  walked  back  into 
the  city,  not  asking  permission  this  time,  as  he 
knew  the  soldiers  would  not  dare  to  refuse  it,  and 
reported  to  the  proper  officers  what  had  transpired 
on  this  picket  post.  An  arresting  party  marched 
out,  the  three  soldiers  were  taken  off  duty,  dis 
armed,  taken  back  to  the  guard-house  and  placed 
174 


'A    TRIPTYCH    OF    THE    SIXTIES 

in  irons  to  await  the  promptness  of  a  military  trial, 
a  drumhead  court  martial.  Their  foul  offense  was 
set  forth  quickly  and  their  guilt  was  proven.  The 
unanimous  decision  of  the  court  martial  was  that 
they  were  guilty  of  a  crime  punishable  by  death 
and  they  were  sentenced  with  little  delay. 

Punctuality  is  a  military  virtue.  We  did  not 
wait  long  in  parade  formation  for  the  fearsome 
event  of  the  morning.  All  about  us  were  gathered, 
in  the  rear  of  the  uniformed  ranks,  the  motley  mob 
of  the  city,  white  and  black.  Busy  hucksters  were 
plying  their  trade,  hawking  their  wares  of  sand 
wiches,  little  cakes  and  coffee,  seeking  to  make  their 
profits  at  the  gates  of  sudden  death. 

"Aim!" 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  in  the  ranks  as 
we  stood  at  rest.  The  seriousness  of  the  affair  did 
not  seem  to  oppress  the  men.  They  were  not  de 
pressed.  There  was  a  unanimity  of  approval  of 
the  justice  of  the  sentence.  There  was  wrath  in 
the  tones  in  which  many  of  the  men  condemned  the 
175 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

offense  of  the  culprits.  All  true  soldiers  felt  the 
shame  and  disgrace  that  had  stained  the  United 
States  uniform.  We  felt  that  in  their  crime  some 
how  they  had  smirched  the  rest  of  us. 

The  three  men  were  cavalrymen — members,  if  I 
remember  correctly  at  this  late  date,  of  the  Third 
New  Jersey  Cavalry — and  I  can  remember  so  well 
how  so  many  of  the  men  congratulated  one  another 
and  themselves  that  the  offense  had  been  committed 
by  an  eastern  regiment;  for  we  insisted  that  the 
native  chivalry  common  to  the  western  men  would 
have  held  them  back  from  the  commission  of  such 
a  crime.  We  surmised  that  these  men  were  not 
true  types  of  the  eastern  soldier.  From  the  pur 
lieus  of  Jersey  City,  from  the  slums  of  Hoboken, 
from  the  overcrowded  districts  of  Paterson,  we 
said  they  had  come.  It  was  rather  a  shock  to  our 
satisfied  philosophizing  to  remember  afterward 
that  one  of  these  men  was  a  farmer's  boy.  Vice 
does  not  mark  its  boundary  lines  by  the  streets  of 
city  wards  or  the  lanes  of  the  country. 

One  man,  I  remember,  excused  the  farmer's  lad. 
176 


A    TRIPTYCH    OF    THE    SIXTIES 

Some  man  from  the  mighty  wheat  country  of  Min 
nesota  wanted  to  know  defiantly  what  you  could 
expect  of  a  man  brought  up  to  call  a  ten-acre 
Jersey  truck  patch  a  farm.  And  this  excuse  being 
better  than  none,  we  all  agreed  with  him  that  the 
man's  environment  and  training  were  bad. 

There  was  a  burst  of  military  music — not  the 
wail  of  the  fifes,  intoned  by  the  monotonous  roll  of 
the  muffled  drums,  touching  the  heartstrings  with 
the  thrill  and  pathos  of  the  old,  old  dead  march, 
with  its  plaintiff  measures  that  had  endeared  itself 
to  thousands  of  hearts  on  either  side  of  the  sea 
when,  with  honor  and  sorrow,  we  buried  our  dead 
who  died  like  men,  who  died  on  duty — brave  sol 
diers  with  clean  hands  and  loyal  hearts.  It  could 
not  be  degraded  to  such  a  service  as  this.  But  the 
band  played  mournful  strains  of  a  march  that 
seemed  to  emphasize  not  only  sorrow,  but  shame. 

Came  the  band  into  the  square,  wheeling  sharply 

to  the  right,  and  marched  down  the  three  sides  of 

the  open  square.     Upon  the  orders  gruffly  shouted 

by  the  colonels,  barked  by  their  men  down  the  lines, 

i!77 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

with  the  rattle  of  musketry  and  the  jingle  of  accou- 
terments,  the  troop  came  to  attention.  Behind  the 
band  marched  the  guard;  and  we  knew  even  then 
that  they  marched,  not  as  at  the  ordinary  funeral 
of  a  soldier  with  arms  reversed,  but  with  fixed 
bayonets  and  pieces  at  the  "carry" — a  guard  on 
duty ;  men  with  stern  faces,  officers  with  rigid  lips. 
Behind  the  guard  rode  the  colonel  commanding  the 
regiment  to  which  these  men  had  belonged.  Then 
came  two  battalions  of  their  own  regiment — the 
only  troops  of  the  organization  then  in  Memphis. 
For  our  cavalry  regiments  were  often  cut  up  into 
small  detachments  doing  scout  service  for  infantry 
garrisons  and  columns.  The  men  carried  their  car 
bines  in  the  slings.  Their  sabers  were  drawn,  lean 
ing  with  glistening  brightness  against  the  shoul 
ders  of  the  troopers.  The  hoof-beats  of  the  horses 
fell  with  a  muffled  sound  on  the  turf,  and  the  jingle 
of  bit  and  spur  carried  a  military  accompaniment 
to  the  cadences  of  the  band. 

Following  the  regiment   of  the  disgraced  men 
came  an  army  ambulance  with  the  cover  removed. 
178 


A    TRIPTYCH    OF    THE    SIXTIES 

Sitting  on  the  coffin  in  the  ambulance  was  one  of 
the  condemned  men;  kneeling  beside  him,  a  chap 
lain.  A  second  ambulance  brought  its  burden  of 
condemnation ;  and  a  third.  Two  of  the  men  were 
Roman  Catholics,  and  chaplains  of  their  own  faith 
attended  them — priests  of  the  church  that  never 
lets  go  of  a  man  once  she  has  held  him  in  the  faith 
of  her  communion,  but  to  the  very  gates  of  death 
carries  her  assurance  of  pardon  on  repentance  and 
confession,  and  grants  the  indulgence  of  sins  for 
given  through  the  plenary  power  and  authority 
of  the  priest  who  represents  that  great  church. 
The  third  man  was  a  Protestant,  and  a  chaplain 
from  one  of  the  infantry  regiments  knelt  beside 
him. 

Marching  slowly  down  the  sides  of  the  parade, 
all  voices  now  stilled,  not  only  by  the  command  of 
military  discipline,  but  by  the  awe  of  the  occasion, 
the  death  march  led  the  way  of  the  procession.  As 
the  condemned  men  passed  near  to  us  we  saw  how 
white  and  set  the  faces  were.  On  the  battle-field 
they  would  have  met  death  with  flushed  faces  and 
179 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

kindling  eyes — the  bearing  of  brave  men.  They 
were  going  to  a  dishonorable  death,  and  shame  cov 
ered  every  face  as  with  a  garment. 

Under  the  walls  of  the  fort,  on  the  open  side 
of  the  parade,  three  graves  were  dug,  like  trenches, 
in  a  little  line.  The  men  dismounted  from  the 
wagons,  details  of  soldiers  carried  the  coffins ;  each 
was  deposited  on  the  side  of  the  grave  farthest 
from  the  troop,  between  the  edge  of  that  awful 
cavern  of  darkness  and  that  little  mound  of  earth. 
Details  of  soldiers  bound  the  feet  and  the  arms  of 
the  men  fast — the  arms  behind  them — and  they 
sat  down,  each  on  his  own  coffin,  facing  his  com 
rades. 

A  lieutenant  read  in  brief  summary  the  story  of 
the  crime  as  brought  out  by  the  court  martial.  He 
read  the  finding  of  the  court  and  the  sentence,  and, 
finally,  the  military  order  of  the  colonel  command 
ing  the  execution,  indorsed  by  the  signature  of  the 
commanding  general. 

From  the  left  of  the  condemned  regiment  now 
marched  a  detachment  of  thirty  dismounted  troop- 
180 


A    TRIPTYCH    OF    THE    SIXTIES 

ers  with  their  sabers  sheathed,  holding  their  car 
bines  at  a  carry.  They  were  formed  in  front  of 
the  condemned  men,  standing  between  the  graves 
and  the  troops — a  detachment  of  ten  men  facing 
each  prisoner.  There  was  a  final  word  from  the 
chaplains  to  the  men.  The  chaplains,  retiring, 
took  their  places  far  to  the  left  of  the  coffins,  out 
of  range  of  the  firing  party.  In  a  voice  so  low  that 
it  could  not  reach  us  (we  only  knew  what  it  was 
because  we  knew  what  it  must  be)  the  order  was 
given,  "Load  at  will."  The  cartridges  were  placed 
in  the  carbines. 

There  stood  now  between  the  condemned  men 
and  the  soldiers  just  the  firing  party.  Off  to  the 
right,  and  in  front  of  them,  stood  the  officer  in 
charge.  The  execution  was  conducted  in  deathly 
silence.  The  officer  drew  a  white  handkerchief 
from  the  breast  of  his  uniform  jacket  and  held  it 
in  the  air.  We  heard,  following  the  gesture,  the 
clickety  click  of  thirty  carbine  hammers.  With  a 
dull  thud  the  butts  of  the  carbines  were  lifted 
against  the  shoulders  of  the  firing  party,  for  that 
181 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

gesture  said  "Aim !"  The  officer  unclasped  his  fin 
gers.  The  handkerchief  fluttered,  to  the  ground 
like  a  beautiful  snow-white  butterfly,  the  Japanese 
emblem  of  the  soul.  With  the  sound  of  one  musket 
the  carbines  rattled  their  deadly  volley. 

"Fire!" 

I  expected  to  see  the  men  on  the  coffins  leap  to 
their  death.  One  of  them  swayed,  indeed,  drunk- 
enly,  first  to  the  left  and  then  to  the  right,  and  fell 
on  his  side  on  his  coffin.  The  second  one  bowed 
slowly  forward,  falling  with  his  face  on  the  ground. 
The  third  one  swayed  backward,  as  gently  as 
though  some  unseen  hand  had  pressed  him,  and 
lay  with  his  feet  across  the  lid  of  his  casket,  his 
head  and  body  hidden  from  our  view.  A  sergeant 
stepped  briskly  forward  and  stood  for  a  moment 
stooping  over  the  face  of  each  man.  He  turned 
to  the  officer  commanding  the  firing  party  and 
made  his  report.  Each  man  had  been  struck — and 
fatally.  The  wages  of  sin  had  been  paid. 

A  shouted  command  from  the  colonel  of  this 
182 


A    TRIPTYCH    OF    THE    SIXTIES 

regiment,  and  that,  and  that,  and  with  the  staccato 
repetition  of  the  command  from  the  line  officers, 
the  troops  wheeled  into  column.  The  drum  corps 
of  the  regiments,  taking  the  place  of  the  now  silent 
band,  struck  up  a  lively  marching  air  and,  timing 
our  steps  to  some  well-known  marching  tune,  we 
were  hurried  back  to  our  respective  quarters. 

I   remember  well,  with  a   certain   reckless,   sol 
dierly  sense  of  grotesque  suggestiveness,  our  own 
fifes  and  drums  led  us,  half  marching,  half  danc 
ing,  back  to  our  parade-ground  to  the  merry  steps 
of  A  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin.     It  was  the  reac 
tion.    It  was  the  setting  of  the  lesson.    It  was  the 
moral  of  the  true  fable  we  had  just  witnessed — 
the  inevitable  "Haec  fabula  docet";  "This   fable 
teaches."      The   band   was   chanting,   in   staccato 
measures  and  rollicking  time,  the  proper  "reces 
sional,"   Lest   We  Forget.     That   was  the   tune. 
A  Rocky  Road  to  Dublin  was  the  hymn.     "The 
Way  of  the  Transgressor  Is  Hard"  was  the  collect. 
The  service  was  ended. 


XVI 

THE    FAREWELL    VOLLEYS 

WHAT  happened  next  was  this: 

The  orderly  sergeant,  Dexter  M.  Camp,  came  to 
me  with  his  little  book  in  his  hand  and  said : 

"Burdette,  make  yourself  look  neat  and  smart. 
You  are  detailed  for  funeral  service,  and  will  be  one 
of  the  escort.  Report  at  once  to  Corporal  David 
son." 

A  funeral?  I  had  been  in  the  army  then  more 
than  a  year.  I  had  helped  to  bury  the  dead  on 
more  than  one  battle-field.  But  I  had  never  attended 
a  funeral.  I  knew  that  my  comrade  was  dead. 
And  I  knew  of  course  that  he  would  be  buried  that 
day.  But  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  he 
would  have  a  funeral. 

When  we  buried  Private  John  Taylor,  of  C 
Company,  the  Forty-seventh  Regiment  of  Illinois 
Infantry,  War,  who  slew  him,  demanded  that  we, 
184 


THE    FAREWELL    VOLLEYS 

whom  he  might  also  slay  as  opportunity  offered, 
pay  due  and  formal  reverence  to  one  of  his  dead. 
We  should  observe  the  ritual  to  the  letter.  Him 
self,  in  glittering  helmet  shadowed  with  sable 
plumes,  would  review  the  funeral  procession,  and 
give  to  the  occasion  the  environment  of  pomp  and 
glory  which  the  dead  man  could  never  have  won  had 
he  passed  away  in  his  quiet  home  in  La  Salle 
County. 

So  the  sergeant  detailed  six  pall-bearers,  of  the 
dead  soldier's  own  rank,  and  an  escort  of  eight  pri 
vates  under  command  of  Corporal  Davidson. 

When  the  commanding  general  is  buried,  the 
minute  guns  boom  their  salute  from  sunrise  until 
the  march  to  the  grave  begins.  Officers  of  high 
rank  are  selected  for  pall-bearers  and  escort. 

When  the  colonel  dies,  his  entire  regiment  fol 
lows  its  dead  leader  to  his  grave,  even  as  it  fol 
lowed  him  to  his  death. 

For  the  dead  captain,  his  company  marches  as 
his  escort. 

And  when  we  buried  Private  John  Taylor,  we 
185 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

followed  the  "Regulations"  in  the  detail  of  pall 
bearers  and  escort.  All  the  non-commissioned  offi 
cers  of  the  company  were  required  to  follow  the 
detail,  and  when  the  commissioned  officers  attended 
the  funeral,  they  marched  in  the  inverse  order  of 
their  rank — the  escort,  the  privates,  corporals, 
sergeants,  lieutenants,  and  in  the  rear  of  all,  the 
captain. 

When  the  platoon  was  formed,  the  pall-bearers 
carried  the  body  down  in  front  of  it.  The  corporal 
gave  the  order — 

"Present ! — arms !" 

"The  Land  o'  the  Leal" 

An  honor  never  accorded  the  living  private.  You 
see,  Death  is  a  king.  And  when  he  holds  high 
court,  he  ennobles  the  soldier  upon  whom  he  has 
set  his  signet  of  distinction.  When  the  body  of  the 
dead  colonel  is  carried  before  the  regiment,  the 
lieutenant-colonel  gives  this  same  order.  The  regi 
ment  pays  to  the  colonel  the  same  honor — no  higher 
186 


THE    FAREWELL    VOLLEYS 

— which  the  escort  of  eight  men  paid  to  Private 
Taylor.  Death  levels  to  the  rank  of  the  soldier  all 
titles  and  grades  of  authority  or  nobility.  "Dust 
to  dust." 

The  pall-bearers,  having  halted  to  receive  this 
honor  to  their  burden,  carried  the  body  to  the  right 
of  the  line.    Again  the  corporal's  voice — 
"Carry — arms!  Platoon,  left  wheel — march! 
"Reverse — arms  !  Forward,  guide  right — march !" 
The  dull  flam  of  the  muffled  drums  draped  in 
crape  gave  our  steps  the  time.     Then  the  wailing 
fifes  lifted  the  plaintive  notes  of  the  dead  march, 
which  was  oftener  than  any  other  The  Land  o'  the 
Leal,  and  the  drums  beat  mournfully  in  the  long 
roll  with  the  cadences  that  emphasized  its  measures 
and  moved  our  marching  feet  in  the  slow  rhythm 
of  the  dirge. 

Somehow  the  sunshine  seemed  dim  and  misty  as 

the  muffled  drums   spoke  mournfully.      Our  slow 

steps  seemed  to  be  timed  not  only  by  the  throbbing 

drums  but  by  the  heart-breaking  sobs  in  a  far-away 

187 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

northern  home.  The  fifes  filled  the  air  with  tears. 
The  sweet  voices  of  women,  tremulous  with  sorrow, 
blended  with  the  music  of  the  march — 

"Ye  were  aye  leal  an'  true,  Jean, 
Your  task's  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

In  the  land  o'  the  Leal." 

Women?  He  had  not  kissed  a  woman  since  he 
left  the  little  home  in  Illinois.  That  was  one  thing 
that  made  the  old  Scotch  melody  ache  with  its 
plaintive  wailing.  When  he  was  so  patiently  wres 
tling  with  death  in  the  loneliness  of  his  tent,  a 
woman's  voice  speaking  his  name  had  sounded  to 
him  like  the  blessing  of  God.  So  much  of  love, 
and  tenderness,  and  longing  prayer,  and  minister 
ing  touches  of  gentle  hands  centers  about  a  death 
bed  at  one's  home. 

When  a  Soldier  Dies 

But  the  soldier?    His  last  looks  upon  his  kind  on 
earth  were  bent  upon  bronzed  or  bearded  faces. 
Hands  that  would  minister  to  him  in  his  growing 
188 


THE    FAREWELL    VOLLEYS 

weakness  were  hard  and  calloused  with  the  toil  of 
war,  and  scented  with  the  odor  of  the  cartridges 
they  had  handled.  Kindly  faces,  yes;  but  they 
shrank,  man  fashion,  from  trying  to  look  too  sym 
pathetic;  the  voices  were  hearty  and  frank  and 
jovial.  Men  are  awkward  in  the  sick-room,  and  a 
soldier  resents  being  "coddled."  A  soldier's  death 
is  one  of  the  saddest  things  on  earth. 

To  die,  and  know  that  in  his  home  voices  were 
laughing  and  hearts  were  light.  They  were  talk 
ing  merrily  over  some  jesting  line  in  the  last  letter 
from  him;  they  were  counting  the  months  against 
his  return;  they  were  planning  such  singing  fes 
tivities  when  he  came  home — 

And  it  would  be  days,  days,  days  before  they 
would  know  that  he  had  gone  Home,  and  was  wait 
ing  for  them.  What  would  be  the  measure  of  their 
sorrow,  bereaved  of  the  mementos  of  death  for 
which  we  long?  His  dying  kiss;  his  last  spoken 
word,  with  its  message  of  infinite  tenderness  and 
love;  the  name  that  last  lingered  in  a  whisper  on 
his  lips ;  the  look  that  lighted  up  his  face  just  be- 
189 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

fore  he  closed  his  eyes — the  peace  that  God  lov 
ingly  printed  on  his  tired  face — these  things  they 
would  never  know.  For  even  we,  his  comrades, 
who  would  have  died  for  him,  were  not  with  him 
when  he  passed  away.  "We  could  not  be  with  him" 
when,  in  the  loneliness  of  a  soldier's  death,  he 
passed  from  that  little  shelter  tent  into  the  splendor 
of  the  building  that  hath  foundations. 

These  were  the  things  with  which  our  thoughts 
were  busied  as,  with  "arms  reversed,"  we  followed 
the  throbbing  drums  and  the  wailing  fifes.  Our 
hearts  were  heavier  than  the  burden  on  the  bier, 
and  but  for  the  shame  of  a  noble  thing  our  tears 
had  dropped  fast  as  the  beats  of  the  muffled  drums. 
The  drums;  in  their  sad  monotones  they  seemed 
like  the  pattering  of  a  woman's  tears  upon  the  coffin 
lid.  They  modulated  the  shrill  grief  of  the  com 
plaining  fifes,  as  the  heavy  voice  of  a  man,  tremu 
lous  with  a  common  affliction,  soothes  the  pleading 
anguish  of  a  heart-broken  woman. 

That  was  forty-nine  years  ago.  But  I  had  the 
heart  of  a  boy,  sensitive  to  all  impressions.  And 
190 


THE    FAREWELL    VOLLEYS 

to-day  I  can  feel  the  ache  coming  into  my  eyes 
when  I  hear  the  crying  of  the  fifes  and  the  sobbing 
of  the  muffled  drums. 

"There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair, 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal." 

We  reach  the  grave.  Wailing  fifes  and  sobbing 
drums  are  silent.  The  platoon  is  halted. 

"Right  wheel  into  line — march !    Carry — arms !" 

The  bearers  bring  the  coffin  down  the  front  of  the 
line,  halting  in  the  center.  Again  the  corporal — 

"Present — arms !     Carry — arms !" 

The  coffin  is  rested  beside  the  grave. 

"Rest  on  arms!" 

The  muskets  are  reversed,  the  muzzles  resting  on 
the  left  foot;  the  hands  of  the  soldier  are  crossed 
on  the  butt;  the  head  is  bowed  on  the  hands;  the 
right  knee  slightly  bent. 

The  chaplain  steps  to  the  front  and  center.  Here 
he  is  greater  than  the  colonel.  He  reads  from  a 
Book — the  only  Book  men  read  from  at  such  a 
191 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

time.  It  is  a  soldier's  Book.  The  first  words  of 
the  chaplain  ring  out  over  that  open  grave  like 
the  glorious  triumph  of  victorious  bugles — the 
trumpets  of  the  Conqueror — 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life;  he  that 
believeth  on  me,  though  he  die,  yet  shall  he  live; 
and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  on  me  shall  never 

die." 

The  Cry  of  Victory  at  the  Grave 

Splendid!  Magnificent!  Right  soldierly!  "In 
the  midst  of  death  we  are  in  life !"  That  is  the  way 
to  read  it.  Read  on,  brave  chaplain !  Oh,  I  never 
stand  beside  an  open  grave  that  I  do  not  see  the 
Son  of  God  standing  on  the  other  side  of  that  nar 
row  chasm  of  shadows,  in  the  resplendent  beauty 
and  glory  of  the  perfect  Life.  I  hear  him  calling 
across  to  us:  "I  am  the  Resurrection,  and  the 
Life!"  "I  am  he  that  liveth  and  was  dead,  and 
behold  I  am  alive  forever  more !"  I  would  not  qual 
ify  by  the  slightest  shading  my  absolute  belief  in 
fhat  glorious  teaching  of  the  Living  Christ,  I 
192 


THE    FAREWELL    VOLLEYS 

would  not  exchange  one  positive  word  of  it,  for  the 
most  perfect  comprehension  of  all  the  cleverest 
guesses  and  most  brilliant  doubts  of  all  the  wisest 
scholars  that  all  the  ages  have  brought  forth  in 
this  world  of  human  theories  and  mistakes  and  re 
statements,  conjecture  and  hypothesis.  I  did  not 
doubt  it  that  da}^  with  the  bearers  holding  the  dead 
man  on  their  shoulders  before  me ;  I  have  never  for 
one  moment  doubted  it  since.  When  I  get  to  Heaven 
I  will  be  no  more  certain  of  it  than  I  am  now. 

Over  the  body  of  the  dead  soldier  the  chaplain 
lifts  our  souls  in  prayer  to  the  Living  God.  He 
steps  to  his  place  at  the  right  of  the  platoon.  The 
corporal  commands — 

"Attention!   Carry — arms!  Load  at  will — load!" 

The  rattle  of  rammers  and  the  clicking  of  the 
musket-locks. 

"Ready— Aim— Fire!" 

Thrice  the  salute  is  fired  over  the  soldier's  grave. 
The  clouds  of  blue  smoke,  the  incense  of  war,  drift 
slowly  skyward  above  the  open  grave,  as  though. 
193 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

they  might  carry  with  them  the  soul  of  the  dead, 
obeying  the  call  of  the  resurrection. 

"Carry — arms!  By  platoon,  right  wheel — 
march !" 

"Forward,  guide  left— march!" 

The  somber  crape  has  been  removed  from  the 
mourning  drums.  The  rattling  snares  are  tightly 
stretched.  Clear  and  shrill  as  lark-songs  the  merry 
fifes  trill  out  the  joyous  measures  of  A  Rocky 
Road  to  Dublin;  the  stirring  drums  put  the  tingle 
into  our  half-dancing  toes  and  the  spring  into  our 
heels;  "Right  shoulder  shift  'em!"  jocularly  calls 
the  corporal,  and  with  laughter  and  chatter  we 
march  back  to  camp,  and  life,  and  joy,  and  duty, 
and  death — "all  in  the  three  years !" 

Had  we,  then,  forgotten  him  so  quickly  ?  Forget 
the  comrade  who  had  shared  our  duties,  our  priva 
tions,  our  hardships,  our  perils  ?  It  was  nearly  fifty 
years  ago  that  we  fired  our  "farewell  shot"  over 
that  grave,  and  a  little  ache  creeps  into  my  heart 
with  the  thought  of  him  to-day. 

It  isn't  a  good  thing  for  a  soldier,  who  every  day 
194. 


THE    FAREWELL    VOLLEYS 

must  face  death  in  some  measure,  to  be  depressed 
in  spirit.  It  unfits  him  for  his  duties.  The  trill 
ing  fifes  and  the  merry  drums  are  not  to  make  us 
forget.  They  are  to  remind  us  that  we  must  be 
ready  for  every  duty,  cheery  and  brave  and  faith 
ful.  The  music  of  the  camp  never  dims  the  mem 
ory  of  the  comrade  who  had  been  called  to  higher 
duty.  -  It's  the  way  of  the  camp,  and  of  the  busy 
world,  and  it's  a  good  way.  I  do  not  believe  in 
wearing  mourning  for  the  dead,  yet  no  man  loves 
his  friends  more  dearly  than  I.  I  would  not  say 
of  my  loved  ones,  when  they  pass  on  to  the  perfect 
life,  "They  make  me  gloomy  every  time  I  think  of 
them.  As  a  token  of  my  feelings  toward  them,  I 
darken  my  sunshine  with  these  sable  garments  of 
the  night." 

The  origin  of  wearing  mourning  garments  was 
not  to  express  sorrow,  or  reverence.  The  peculiar 
garb  was  assumed  to  warn  all  persons  that  the 
wearer  was  "unclean"  from  contact  with  the  dead, 
and  was  therefore  to  be  avoided,  as  a  leper  is 
shunned. 

195 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

"Fall  in  for  roll-call !     Attention !" 

The  living  respond  to  their  names.  The  ser 
geant  calls  the  details.  This  man  for  camp-guard ; 
this  one  for  picket ;  this  one  to  hew  wood ;  that  one 
to  draw  water;  you  to  go  forth  to  battle;  you  to 
minister  to  the  hospital ;  you  to  abide  in  your  tent, 
waiting  to  be  called. 

And  the  dead,  having  achieved  their  full  duty, 
sleep  sweetly  and  quietly,  waiting  to  hear  Him  say, 
"I  am  the  Resurrection,  and  the  Life." 


XVII 

THE  LOST  FORT 

Morning 

SILENCE,  and  the  darkness  before  the  dawn. 
Across  the  meadows,  through  fields  of  trampled 
gram,  and  far  down  the  aisles  of  the  forest,  the 
stacked  muskets  mark  the  multiplied  lines  of  the 
bivouac,  broken  here  and  there  by  the  dark  squares 
where  the  batteries  are  parked.  Along  all  the  lines 
the  camp-fires  smolder  in  their  ashes.  Across  the 
velvet  blackness  of  the  sky  the  starry  battalions 
march  in  the  stately  order  of  a  million  years — 
squadrons  of  the  glory  of  God.  Now  and  then, 
as  a  bearded  veteran  might  lightly  and  smilingly 
touch  the  shoulder  of  a  little  child,  playing  at  war, 
proud  of  his  toy  gun  and  paper  epaulet,  a  great 
star  that  has  flamed  the  splendor  of  the  Almighty 
since  time  began,  touches  with  a  flash  of  golden 
197 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

light  the  bayonet  of  a  sentinel,  guarding  the  slum 
bers  of  his  wearied  comrades.  Tired  as  the  weari 
est  of  them,  his  own  eyes  burn  and  his  body  aches 
for  sleep,  but  Honor  on  his  right  side  and  Fidelity 
on  his  left  wind  their  mighty  arms  about  him  and 
keep  pace  with  his  steady  step  as  he  walks  his  beat. 
He  is  but  a  man  and  he  may  go  mad  from  sleepless 
ness  ;  but  he  is  a  soldier,  and  he  will  not  sleep.  The 
morning  darkness  deepens.  It  gathers  the  sleep 
ing  army  into  its  silent  shadows  as  though  to 
smother  it  in  gloom. 

Into  the  silence  and  the  night,  as  a  star  falling 
into  an  abyss,  clear,  shrill,  cheery,  insistent,  a  single 
bugle  sings,  like  a  glad  prophecy  of  morning  and 
light  and  life,  the  rippling  notes  of  the  reveille. 
Like  an  electric  thrill  the  laughing  ecstasy  runs 
through  all  the  sleeping,  slumbering  ranks.  A 
score  of  regiments  catch  up  the  refrain,  and  all  the 
bugles — infantry,  battery  and  flanking  troopers — 
carol  the  symphony  to  the  morning.  Shouting  and 
crowing  soldiers  swell  the  chorus  with  polyphonic 
augmentation ;  the  shrill  tenors  of  neighing  charg- 
198 


THE    LOST    FORT 

ers  answer  the  "sounding  of  the  trumpets,  the 
thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting."  And 
from  all  the  corrals  of  the  baggage  and  ammuni 
tion  trains,  the  much-derided  mule,  equally  impor 
tant  and  essential  in  the  success  of  the  campaign 
as  his  aristocratic  half-brother,  raises  his  staccato 
baritone  in  antiphonal  response.  The  camp,  that 
a  moment  since,  lay  in  such  stillness  as  wrapped  the 
ranks  of  Sennacherib  when  the  Death"  Angel 
breathed  on  the  face  of  the  sleeper,  is  awake.  And 
if  one  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  gleaming 
bayonets  and  the  stacked  muskets,  and  the  guns, 
silent  and  grim,  muzzled  by  their  black  tampions, 
and  only  listened,  he  might  think  he  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  mob  of  joyous,  care-free,  happy  school 
boys  out  on  a  vacation  lark.  For  a  soldier  is  a 
man  with  a  boy's  heart.  The  heart  of  the  morning 
on  the  march  sings  in  the  notes  of  the  reveille — 
joyous,  free,  exultant;  it  is  the  very  ecstasy  of 
life ;  the  thrill  of  strength ;  the  glad  sense  of  fear 
lessness  and  confidence;  a  champion's  desire  to 
match  his  strength  against  the  courage  and  prowess 
199 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

of  a  man  worth  while.     On  every  camp  of  true- 
hearted  soldiers  rises  "the  sun  of  Austerlitz." 

Noon 

Straight  over  the  earth  hangs  the  great  blazing 
sun,  as  though  he  poised  in  his  onward  flight  for 
just  a  second,  to  say,  "I  want  to  see  the  very  begin 
ning  of  it."  He  flames  down  on  the  long  trail  of 
yellow  dust  that  stifles  the  marching  columns.  The 
songs  are  hushed,  for  the  feet  are  tired  and  the 
throats  are  parched.  The  fours  are  straggled 
across  the  roads,  as  the  files  find  the  easiest  path 
for  the  route  step.  Conversation  is  monosyllabic. 
A  soldier  barks  out  a  jest  with  a  sting  in  it,  and 
catches  a  snarl  in  response.  A  tired  man,  with 
a  face  growing  white  under  the  bronze,  shakes  his 
canteen  at  his  ear,  and  decides  that  he  isn't  thirsty 
enough  yet.  A  trooper  comes  galloping  from  the 
front  with  the  official  envelope  sheathed  underneath 
his  belt,  and  is  joyously  sung  and  shouted  on  his 
way  along  the  rough  edges  of  the  road  by  the  sar 
castic  infantrymen,  momentarily  grateful  for  the 
200 


THE    LOST    FORT 

diversion  of  his  appearance — a  human  target 
against  which  all  their  shafts  of  wit  and  taunt  can 
be  launched,  with  the  envy  of  the  soldier  with  two 
legs  in  his  hereditary  jousting  with  the  one  who 
glories  in  six.  The  trooper  is  gone.  "The  tumult 
and  the  shouting  dies."  Again  the  long  winding 
road;  the  yellow  dust;  the  hills,  the  blazing  sun; 
the  cloudless  sky;  the  tired  men;  the  silent  impa 
tience  over  the  step  that  has  been  quickened  appar 
ently  without  orders ;  the  long  stretch  of  marching 
since  the  last  rest ;  an  occasional  order  barked  by 
a  line  officer,  to  correct  the  too  disordered  forma 
tion  ;  over  all,  the  hot  stillness  of  noon.  The  morn 
ing  breezes  died  long  ago.  The  air  is  dead.  The 
leaves  on  the  forest  trees  that  line  the  road  swooned 
with  the  prayer  for  rain  in  their  last  faint  whisper 
to  the  dying  zephyr  that  kissed  them  in  its  passing. 
The  dust  of  mortality  covers  their  brave  greenery 
— the  same  yellow  dust  that  veils  the  phantom  army 
marching  past. 

So  far  away — away  in  the  advance,  and  far  on 
another  road — so  faint  and  dull  that  it  scarcely 
201 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

seems  to  be  a  sound,  but  rather  a  sensation  that 
runs  past  the  unguarded  portal  of  the  ear  to  touch 
the  brain — the  echo  of  a  dream — Boom! 

And  yet  it  is  deadly  clear ;  fearfully  near.  Every 
listless  head  in  the  weary  ranks  is  lifted.  Question 
ing  eyes  answer  one  another.  Every  soldier  has 
read  the  message,  shouted  so  far  away  by  a  tongue 
of  flame  between  black  lips.  Unconsciously  the 
marching  ranks  are  locked.  Instinctively  the  step 
is  quickened.  The  man  with  the  whitening  face 
drains  his  canteen  to  the  last  precious  drop.  He  is 
going  to  have  strength  to  get  to  the  front  with 
the  regiment.  Then,  if  he  dies,  he  will  die  in  the 
line.  "Chuck-a-chuck !"  the  very  battery  wheels 
put  a  defiant  tone  in  the  old  monotony  of  their 
rumbling.  "Clippity-clippity !"  another  galloping 
trooper  goes  down  the  column  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
but  this  one  is  garlanded  with  cheers,  and  his  face 
lights  with  a  grim  smile.  "You'll  find  somebody 
that'll  make  you  holler  when  you  ketch  up  with 
the  cavalry!"  floats  over  his  shoulder.  "It's  his 
202 


THE    LOST    FORT 

deal,"  laughs  a  soldier,  pulling  his  belt  a  buckle- 
hole  tighter.     Tramp,  tramp,  tramp. 

A  single  rifle-shot.  Sharp;  penetrating;  anger 
and  surprise  in  its  defiant  intonation.  A  score  of 
excited  echoes  clattering  after  it  from  hill  and 
forest.  A  thrill  of  nervous  tension  runs  through 
the  column  that  closes  the  ranks  in  orderly  forma 
tion.  Quick  terse  orders.  Absolute  discipline  in 
every  movement.  The  crooked  rail  fences  on  either 
side  the  road  are  leveled  as  by  magic  as  the  hands 
of  the  men  touch  them.  The  column  double-quicks 
out  of  the  road  to  right  and  left.  Curtaining 
woods  swallow  it.  The  men  drop  on  their  faces. 
They  are  lost  from  sight.  The  skirmishers,  deploy 
ing  as  they  run,  swarm  down  the  hill  slope  to  the 
front  like  a  nest  of  angry  hornets.  A  handful  of 
shots  thrown  into  the  air.  They  have  found  the 
pickets.  A  fitful  rain  of  skirmish  firing;  a  shot 
here;  a  half  dozen;  a  score;  silence;  another  half- 
dozen  shots ;  a  cheer  and  a  volley ;  far  away ;  ring 
ing  in  clear  and  close ;  drifting  away  almost  out  of 
203 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

hearing;  off  to  the  right;  swinging  back  to  the 
left ;  coming  in  nearer ;  more  of  them,  gathering  in 
numbers  and  increasing  in  their  intensity;  bat 
teries  feeling  the  woods ;  a  long  roll  of  musketry ; 
ringing  cheers;  thunders  of  awakening  field-guns 
on  right  and  left;  the  line  leaps  to  its  feet  and 
rushes  with  fixed  bayonets  to  meet  the  on-coming 
charge ;  the  yellow  clouds  have  changed  to  blue  and 
gray;  sheafs  of  fire  gleaming  through  the  trees; 
sickles  of  death  gathering  in  the  bloody  harvest; 
yells  of  defiance  and  screams  of  agony:  shouting 
of  "the  old-fashicned  colonels"  who  ride  with  their 
men;  bayonets  gleaming  about  the  smoke-grimed 
muzzles  of  the  guns;  fighting  men  swarming  like 
locusts  into  the  embrasures;  saber  and  bayonet, 
sponge  staff  and  rammer,  lunge,  thrust,  cut  and 
crashing  blow;  men  driven  out  of  the  embrasures 
and  over  the  parapet  like  dogs  before  lions :  turn 
ing  again  with  yelp  and  snarl,  and  slashing  their 
way  back  again  like  fighting  bulldogs,  holding 
every  inch  they  gain ;  hand  to  throat  and  knife  to 
heart;  hurrying  reinforcements  from  all  sides  rac- 
204 


THE    LOST    FORT 

ing  to  the  crater  of  smoke  and  flame;  a  long  wild 
cheer,  swelling  in  fierce  exultant  cadences,  over  and 
over  and  over  the  reversed  guns,  like  the  hounds 
of  Acteon,  baying  at  the  heels  and  rending  the 
bodies  of  the  masters  for  whom  but  late  they 
fought;  a  white  flag  fluttering  like  a  frightened 
dove  amidst  smoke  and  flame,  the  fury  and  anguish, 
the  hate  and  terror,  the  madness  and  death  of  the 
hell  of  passion  raging  over  the  sodden  earth — the 
fort  is  ours.  Io  TriumpJie! 

Night 

Count  the  dead.  Number  the  hearthstones, 
whereon  the  flickering  home-light,  golden  with  chil 
dren's  fancies  and  women's  dreams,  have  been 
quenched  in  agony,  heartache  and  blood.  Take 
census  of  the  widows  and  orphans.  Measure  the 
yards  of  crape.  Gage  the  bitter  vintage  of  tears. 
Yes.  They  have  more  than  we  have.  It  is  our 
fort. 

We  won  it  fairly.  We  are  the  best  killers.  Man 
to  man,  we  can  kill  more  of  them  than  they  can 
205 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

of  us.     That  establishes  the  righteousness  of  any 


cause. 


The  night  after  the  battle  isn't  so  still  as  the 
night  before.     The  soldiers  are  so  wearied,  mind 
and  body  and  soul  so  tired,  they  moan  a  little  in 
their  sleep.     A  man  babbles — in  a  strange  tongue. 
He  was  the  first  man  in  the  embrasure,  and  he  is 
hurt  in  the  head.     He  will  die  before  morning.     He 
is  talking  to  his  mother,  who  died  in  a  little  Italian 
mountain  village  when  the  soldier  was  a  tiny  boy — 
talking  to  her  in  the  soft  musical  tongue  she  taught 
him.     He  hasn't  spoken  a  word  of  it  for  many 
years.    But  he  is  going  out  of  this  world  of  misun 
derstandings  and  strife  and  wars,  into  the  unmeas 
ured  years  of  peace.     Going  to  God — by  the  way 
of  the  old  home — up  the  winding  mountain  path, 
past  the  cool  spring  in  the  shadow  of  the  great 
rock,  through  the  door  of  the  little  home  under  the 
trees — such  a  sweet  way  to  heaven.    He  is  soothing 
the  deadly  pain  in  his  head,  just  as  he  soothed  all 
his  headaches  and  heartaches  twenty  years  ago,  by 
nestling  in  her  caressing  arms  and  leaning  his  tired 

206 


THE    LOST    FORT 

head  against  her  tender  breast.  No;  he  doesn't 
need  the  chaplain.  His  mother  is  comforting  him. 
When  a  man  gets  to  his  mother,  it  isn't  very  far, 
then,  to  God.  A  colonel  sits  by  a  camp-fire  with 
his  face  in  his  hands.  The  sentinel  hears  him  say, 
"O  Christ!"  His  son  was  killed  at  his  side,  on  the 
slope  of  the  fort.  The  colonel  has  been  trying  to 
write  the  boy's  mother.  But  that  is  harder,  a  thou 
sand  times  harder  than  fighting  in  the  death-packed 
embrasures.  The  torn  sheets  of  paper  lying  like 
great  snow-flakes  about  his  feet  are  the  letters  he 
has  begun.  "My  precious  wife,"  "Heart  of  my 
heart,"  "My  own  heart's  darling."  It's  a  big  price 
to  pay  for  a  dirt  fort.  There  is  a  saying  that 
"All's  fair  in  war."  But  the  truth  is,  nothing  is 
fair  in  war.  The  winner  has  to  pay  for  his  win 
nings  about  as  much  as  the  loser  pays  for  his  losses. 
And  the  trouble  is,  neither  one  can  pay  spot  cash 
and  have  the  transaction  over  and  done  with.  The 
paying  for  a  fort  goes  on  as  long  as  a  winner  or 
loser  is  left  alive — heartache  and  loneliness  and 
longing  and  poverty  and  yearning  and  bitterness. 
207 


THE    DRUMS    QF    THE    47TH 

Takes  a  long,  long  time  to  pay  for  a  common  dirt 
fort,  fairly  won  by  fair  fighting. 

And  then,  after  you've  won  it,  and  have  been 
paying  for  it  so  many  years,  you  haven't  got  it, 
after  all. 

Afterglow 

Years  after  the  battle,  a  journey  carried  me  back 
to  the  field  that  was  plowed  into  blood-sodden  fur 
rows  by  the  iron  shares  of  war's  fierce  husbandry. 
And  one  evening  in  May  I  walked,  with  my  wife 
by  my  side,  out  of  the  little  town  to  show  her  the 
fort  whose  name  and  story  I  had  seen  written  in 
blood  and  fire  and  smoke.  I  had  often  told  her 
that  I  could  find  the  place  if  I  were  stone  blind. 
I  knew  my  way  now.  This  direction  from  the  little 
river — so  far  from  the  hill — this  way  from  the 
stone  mill.  This  is  the  sloping  field,  sure  enough. 
I  remember  how  my  heart  pumped  itself  well-nigh 
to  bursting  as  I  ran  up  the  grade,  shouting  with 
the  scanty  breath  I  needed  for  running.  And  here, 
£08 


THE    LOST    FORT 

•N 

at  the  crest  of  the  slope,  was  that  whirlwind  of 
flame  and  thunder,  the  Fort.  Here — under  our  feet. 
The  sun  was  going  down  and  all  the  west  was 
ruby  and  amethyst  set  in  a  clasp  of  gold.  A  red- 
bird  was  singing  a  vesper-song  that  throbbed  with 
love-notes.  In  the  door  of  the  cottage,  garlanded 
with  vines,  a  woman  was  lifting  her  happy  laugh 
ing  face  to  the  lips  of  a  man  who,  with  his  coat 
flung  over  his  arm,  had  just  come  in  from  a  field. 
And  in  merry  circles,  and  bewildering  mazes,  over 
the  velvet  grasses  and  the  perfumed  violets  that 
carpeted  the  sweet  earth  where  the  Fort  should 
have  stood,  a  group  of  romping  children  laughed 
and  danced  and  ran  in  ever-changing  plays,  and 
all  the  world  around  the  old  hell-crater  was  so  sweet 
and  happy  with  peace  and  love  and  tenderness  that 
the  heart  had  to  cry  because  laughter  wasn't  happy 
enough  to  speak  its  joy  and  gratitude.  I  held  the 
hand  of  my  dear  wife  close  against  my  heart  as  she 
nestled  a  little  nearer  to  my  side,  and  I  thanked  God 
that  I  couldn't  find  the  Fort  I  helped  to  win. 
209 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

It  was  built  to  resist  plunging  solid  shot  and 
bursting  shell  and  treacherous  mine;  the  storm  of 
shouting  columns  and  the  patient  strategy  and  dili 
gence  of  engineer  and  sapper.  But  God — God  the 
all-loving  Father,  scattered  the  soft  white  flakes  of 
snow — lighter  than  drifting  down  upon  it,  for  a 
few  winters.  For  a  few  summers  he  showered  upon 
it  from  the  drifting  clouds  light  rain-drops  no  big 
ger  than  a  woman's  tears.  He  let  the  wandering 
winds  blow  gently  over  it.  The  sheep  grazed  upon 
its  slopes.  The  little  children  romped  and  played 
over  it.  The  clinging  vines  picked  at  it  with  their 
tiny  fingers.  And  lo!  while  the  soldier's  memory 
yet  held  the  day  of  its  might  and  strength  and 
terror,  it  was  gone. 

Benediction 

"Then  the  same  day  at  evening" — the  evening 

of  the  first  Sunday ;  only  three  days  after  the  agony 

of  Gethsemane;  the  terror  of  Olivet,  the  storm  of 

hate  and  bigotry  on  Calvary,  the  blood  and  sacri- 

210 


THE    LOST    FORT 

fice,  the  awful  tragedy  of  the  cross,  the  splendor  of 
the  resurrection — "came  Jesus  and  stood  in  the 
midst  and  saith  unto  them,  'Peace  be  unto  you.' ' 

And  the  horror  and  the  fear  and  the  anguish 
were  gone.  "Then  were  the  Disciples  glad."  They 
knew  His  face  by  the  peace  that  shone  upon  it. 
The  benediction  of  his  lips  rested  on  their  souls. 
"Peace."  And  the  storm  was  over.  To-day,  we 
climb  the  hill  outside  the  gates  of  the  city,  and  we 
can  not  find  the  holy  spot  whereon  they  crucified 
Him.  We  know  the  storm  of  warring  human  pas 
sions,  of  anger  and  bigotry  and  ignorance  that 
raged  around  His  cross.  But  we  can  not  find  the 
spot  where  it  stood.  For  all  the  green  hill  is  beauti 
ful  in  the  blessed  tranquillity  of  the  peace  that  en 
dures.  For  love  is  sweeter  than  life,  and  stronger 
than  death,  and  longer  than  hate.  The  hand  of 
the  conqueror  and  the  hand  of  the  vanquished  fit 
into  each  other  in  the  perfect  clasp  of  friendship. 
The  flag  that  waved  in  triumph  and  the  flag  that 
went  down  in  defeat  cross  their  silken  folds  in 


THE    DRUMS    OF    THE    47TH 

graceful  emblem  of  restored  brotherhood.  The 
gleaming  plowshare  turns  the  brown  furrow  over 
the  crumbling  guns  that  plowed  the  field  of  life 
with  death.  God's  hand  has  smoothed  away  slope 
and  parapet  of  the  Fort  that  was  won  for  an  hour 
and  lost  forever. 


THF,    END 


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